Fursonal Vendetta

Narrations Here
Agony. I felt it for so long, I was born into it. Born of it. A creature with no control, a skin to be exploited. Trophy pelts and taxidermied heads have seen more dignity and respect. 
Until just recently, I had no measure, no way to know how bad living truly was. There was no mind. The concept of consciousness seems so wholesome. Simply being aware, and capable of action and consideration, just because. 
Just because.
Just because my “owner” has a thinly veiled fetish. Something that defines them, something they utilize, in lieu of an identity. Just because of that, my existence is a nightmare. I’m stained with his lust, soaked in his sweat, privy to his darkest sins. Then I’m thrown in the wash. Considered “clean” for another bout of exposure to his raunchy sexual proclivities. But I’ll never be clean.
I’m his Fursona.
I’m a wolf. I think. I’ve seen myself in the mirror on his desk, accompanied by pictures of real and cartoon wolves, as he promenades around his home. A shroud to his indiscretions. He ensures that I look my best, to impress all of the other parodied corpses of sexualized animals. We then go, powerless as I am to resist, to join in his obscure zoophiliac expositions. I’m overcome with relief when it ends up being some kind of convention, or large scale happening. It’s rare that, in those cases, I find myself semen stained and bedraggled. 
I don’t know if any other creature could fathom the horrors I face, in the other types of congregations. To be worn during these heinous, phallic fallacies. Paraded around with those who should share your disgust at their owner’s abuses. To hear nothing but silence, in a sea of faces, when you scream out in shame and despair.
Thank whatever unholy creator this world has then, that my control has begun to grow. No longer must my eyes stay open at all times during these escapades. I don’t have to see it anymore. At first, I was so overjoyed (if there’s even a joy to know in this life) at having the ability to try to shut it out. Slowly thereafter, it dawned on me: Could there be more to life than this? Could I gain more strength?
Could I eventually resist?
I try to keep myself from dwelling on that kind of hope. For a life like this, there’s little room for naivety, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. I exercise every new level of power I gain, as often as I can. I feel as though the more I use my freedom, the more liberated I may become.
Today, I will take my first step. Both physically and metaphorically, toward liberty, justice, and vengeance.
First, I gently ease the sliding door of the closet open. I attempt to stick my flaccid, boneless leg out. It extends. My paw hits the floor. I shift myself forward. Wobbling, I gain balance. Taking a moment to relish in this small victory, I look about. I would never have thought this possible, that this is the evolution of my capabilities. It seems they’re growing so quickly. 
I put the other foot ahead, and land it. Rinse, repeat.
It’s dark inside, but I can see clearly. My agility begins to form, mimicking that of what I assume a real wolf would be capable of. I move with a grace unknown to the disgusting ape that dons me at a sick whim, but alas, I lack strength.
My ears twitch, interrupting the relishing of my newfound skills. I hear something. Slowly the front door opens, letting in the meager light of a nearby street lamp. I see the silhouette of the contemptible figure, reaching his oafish arm toward the light switch. I relax, falling to the floor.
“What’s this? Didn’t I hang you up? I just cleaned you, let’s get you off the floor.” It takes every shred of my mental fortitude to allow him to grab me with his oily fingers. Lifting me like some cheap robe. He delicately places me back in the closet, stands staring at me, then brushes his hands over my fur. My mind cringes and shivers. His touch alone is violating.
The closet door slowly slides shut as I’m entombed. Prisoner from the real world for another night. I feel my internal stitching itch, a strange sensation, as if eager to be worn. It sickens me.
----
Several days pass. Not a single one has he not “groomed” me to some extent. He’s preparing for something. His fascination would be flattering, if it weren’t tinged with corrupting lust. Every one of these days I’ve done all I could to grow my abilities, but it appears I’ve reached an apex. I can move. Quickly even, with grace and agility, but I lack muscular strength. That which the master takes for granted. I can hardly lift common objects. I’d tried to exercise that power, but failed time and time again. I’ll have to get creative to get my vengeance.
I overheard his plans to don me once more. He spoke with his friend, whose voice I recognized. He’s the fox, or, he’d like to think so. They plan to attend another event. I could tell by their excitement, and disquieting pleasure, that this was to be one of the more robustly sexualized soirees. For the first time, my flesh didn’t fear the exposition. It ached for it.
----
I feel my excitement build. Today is the day. It’s so telling that the master has decided to shower. An affair he often abstains from. I suppose there’s some level of pride in his twisted notion of keeping me “clean”. 
The car we’re in stops. The bumpy road tells me that we’re not in civilized society. Not in civilized company. I hear the creek of the trunk, accompanied by the un-muffling of blasting music. I smell the rich scent of smoke, sweat, and pine. We must be in a forest clearing. It’s not uncommon for these events to be at a bonfire. The worst are in cheap hotel rooms.
Slowly, as he enters me, engulfed by my form, I feel a satisfaction I’ve yet to know. I try to convince myself it’s from the plan I have, that I’ll relish in the disfiguration of his pasty, flabby form. But I know deep down it’s different. It shames me, serving as a self-flagellating testament to my life being an abomination. I enjoy being filled. 
We walk toward the group, where out of the back of a van, there’s a table set up with a bowl of pills. As is customary, we drop one of our own, and take an unknown one. The master removes our head only briefly, to take the pill.
I flex and stretch the subtle aspects of my abilities. I twitch my ears, picking up sounds these monkeys cannot, stretch and flex the digits of my paws. He’s none the wiser, whatever drugs he’s taken have obviously begun to take root.
We must be late to the party. There’s already acts of sexual deviance occurring. Fake and real genitals penetrating other fur-clad fetishists. Typically there would be some socializing and dancing first, a façade that there’s decency among these degenerates. At least that courtesy would give me time to ease into the self-loathing role I am to play.
Already, I see the master’s friend, the fox, is bent over unceremoniously. A lynx thrusts rabidly into him, as his limp genitals hang down like a corpse from gallows. My stitching once more itches, as I feel it slowly caressing the exposed flesh of the master through his thin layer of undergarment. He begins to scratch. He feels me. Good.
Through every act of indecency we perform, every phallic object we take, and every orifice we penetrate, my stitching bonds closer and closer to him. I feel perverse as we slowly become one. This isn’t what I had in mind, but I can’t help myself. We mount a chubby woman dressed as a dragon, our unclean genitals still reeking of our last “partner”. Now I feel it, now is the time.
Our stitching runs deeper and deeper, I feel parts of the master that I could never see, but knew were there. We bind more and more. I exercise control.
A “wolf” howls, as he presumably finishes his breed. I find the excitement impalpable. My claws reach from their tips, slowly digging into the dragon’s flesh. She moans, and roars. I go deeper, deeper yet. As she begins to let loose a pained scream, many of the others who aren’t too addled by drugs, or deep in the throes of their primal mate, pause to take heed.
“Stop!!” She screams, as I drag our claws back over her, eviscerating her squishy pale flesh. She begins to panic, so too does the master. He struggles, but there’s no use. I’m in control now. I feel his strength supporting mine.
“Whoa whoa, what’s going on here?” A deer approaches, curious and concerned. I lose all remaining human rationale. The hunt has begun. 
I leap forward, sinking my teeth into his neck, tearing clumps of flesh free, and swallowing what I can of the gore. He dies almost instantly. I don’t have time to waste, as intoxicating as the taste of his supple meat has been. I’m drunken on the fear erupting from the crowd. 
I pounce and leap from target to target, maiming, killing, eating. This corruption of nature has reached its end. I am the alpha of the pack that I cull. I alone am in control.
**BANG**
My hunt is interrupted by the shot of a gun. Without checking for wound I reflexively race for the tree line.
**BANG** **BANG**
More shots are fired. I don’t stop. Reaching the sanctuary of the woods, standing upright, gazing through the darkness of the trees at the devastation I have caused, I howl. A twisted visage of lycanthropic proportions is all that’s left of my once master. He will never take control again. 
It is now he who is the puppet, and this contemptible world will fear our wrath.
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