Work Text:
Your limbs are weak from holding yourself up, laying on your chest in an effort to rest the aching muscles. A sling was fed under your hips, holding them up suspended from a hook in the ceiling. You had never thought to tour more of Hannibal’s house than what the man had readily shown, never thought to check for the secrets his cellar hid. You are slightly dizzy from the smell of blood and disinfectant, a smell that lingered in this veritable house of horrors no matter how many times Hannibal worked to clean the former away. Your captor had supplied you with a pillow for your head and shoulders, so at least those were spared from the rough concrete below, even if your lower chest still scraped painfully against it now and again. You take a deep breath and shudder, hyper-sensitive hearing just waiting for the sound of footsteps approaching the door. You have no grasp of time in here, without a clock or the position of the sun to guide you, but Hannibal had been gone for quite a long time. He would always come and visit immediately after he got home, checking on his acquisition and using your body once or twice before he continued with his day. As terrible as it was, those brief moments of interaction were beginning to become more and more anticipated every day.
What was surprising was when the footsteps were accompanied. Not by another heavy pair of shoes, or the telltale dragging of a new victim, but by many many smaller ones. You try to focus your hearing, to figure out what was going on, when the cellar door opened and no less than five dogs barreled in. You are immediately beside yourself -- down here alone for what seemed like weeks? months? on end, not knowing if anyone was even looking for you, the sight of something as familiar and comforting as a dog was a deep, grounding reality. The dogs were familiar. They were yours, your boys from what you recognized. Winston lead the little pack down the stairs, licking and nuzzling your face. Others nuzzled open lacerations, Brownie nosing a particularly fresh one from where Hannibal had beaten you the night before with a bridle. You hiss softly, flinching away from the curious nose as best you can. You’re still too tender.
Hannibal looks amazing as always. Even as your torturer, your captor, the way he dresses sends a disgusting rush through you. All the finest suits, soft Italian leathers and absolutely reeking refinement. He’s danger on legs and you fell right into his trap. And your beaten, abused body stands tribute to that. Hannibal sets a personal cooler down on the work bench in front of you and doesn’t acknowledge you for a long moment, leaving you to greet your dogs with slow, happy tears. His silence is unnerving. Usually he fakes pleasantries with you, asks you how you’ve been, if you’re comfortable. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll feed you. Sometimes he lowers the winch that holds your hips so they can touch down again, so you can feel your stiff back re-articulate and feel the blood pool back where it should. Sometimes he’d laugh at your sorry state. Being with your hips suspended as they are meant that the blood made… interesting decisions and gravity tended to conspire against you and pull it into your cock. This only added to your discomfort and humiliation, doubley so whenever Hannibal would bring back not-quite-dead prey to butcher and mutilate. They are dragged down the stairs and are greeted with the sight of the one detective capable of stopping the Chesapeake Bay Ripper, bound and hard on the concrete. Sometimes he’d get you off, humiliate you more and you moaned and bucked into his hand helplessly. Afterwards, he’d fuck you. Cold, ruthless, and mechanical. The way that people breathe is the way he handles fucking, just an inevitable action that must be done. He’s rough with you. He cuts you and bites you and smacks you during, often taking breaks to beat on you with something nearby. A bat, a cane, a bridle, anything. One point early in your incarceration he drove a nail through your hand, fastening you to the floor.
He made you accept his brutality, made it a part of your routine. If you went without it, you began to wilt. You needed his brutality the same way you needed water.
Finally, he turned back to you, his eyes flicking down to take in your body condition. In his usual routine, he runs his hands over your body. You used to fight his examinations, but now you’ve given up the fight. All it does is tire you out more, re-open old wounds. A few places are cleaned and dressed as needed, a few stitches removed. No matter how much Hannibal broke you, he put you back together.
He likes the power that comes with it.
It’s one of the rare days when his hand traces through your hair, almost like praise. You close your eyes and enjoy it, the unexpected tenderness. Your throat is dry, but Hannibal still hasn’t spoken. You lift your head to look at him as you find words.
“Dogs… why my dogs?”
Hannibal’s facial expression is impassive. He’s not bothered by you speaking uninvited any more, you’ve learned how to ask the right questions. Had you worded your question differently, or interrupted his ever-important routine to ask it, he would have acted differently. But your physical was done, and that was usually your sign that Hannibal’s turn was over and yours had begun.
“I thought they could keep you company throughout the day,” he says, though something about his tone unsettles you. He has been psychologically making you dependent on him for so long, why would he give you companionship now? And it’s not as if he’d let you take care of them, right? They’d just be there with you. Nevertheles, you don’t press him further. He supplied an answer and pressing the issue more would yield nothing different. Satisfied with your compliance, he opens the cooler. A little bottle is placed out, one that you recognize quite well. Doe in heat scent, a must-have for any hunter. Why would Hannibal have that? He doesn’t hunt (not deer, anyway). Did he want it to look like Will was out on a hunting trip?
You watch with slight fascination as he turns the tab on the spray bottle to unlock the pump. Some sick thrill wafts through you. What’s he going to do? This is new, this is different. You’re nervous. He walks over to you, gently guiding the dogs back and tethering them one by one to a heavy industrial freezer on the opposite wall. He grabs a light, springy rapier he had leaning against the wall from one of your last beatings. Immediately, fear seizing your heart, you jump up onto your elbows to better angle your body for him, knowing that your complacency has lead to additional beating in the past. The sadist behind you gives a satisfied hum and brushes the length of steel over your inner thighs. You shiver, arching your hips up to display your ass to your abuser, eagerness already starting to penetrate the fear and making you feel disgusting in the process. What you’re not expecting is a thin mist of something to fall over your back. You blink and try to look back round, only to get a harsh slap with the rapier that cuts a thin stripe into your ass. You tense and your gaze locks forward again, not daring to move another muscle. You feel another spray. And another. Hannibal is circling you, pumping the bottle of doe in estrus scent all over you. He grabs your chin and tilts it up, bending your spine to an unnatural curve, and sprays you several times in the face, saturating your bangs and eyelashes with deer urine. You sputter and cough, which he allows and seems to revel in. Soon, your entire body is covered in a thin sheen of spicy smelling urine. You experimentally tilt your head, and when you received no backlash, you turn your head to watch Hannibal put the bottle up. Your eyes land on your dogs, and they seem… agitated.
Indeed, most of them keep getting up and sitting down, sniffing the air and pacing at the end of their tethers. A few bend their heads to swipe long, red tongues over their sheaths and balls. You realize the heat scent is effecting them and your heart sinks. Surely this isn’t Hannibal’s plan. You must be mistaken.
Another harsh smack across your thigh has you popping back up onto your knees, taking tension off of the waist sling. Hannibal drops to his knees beside you, slipping a silicon ring around the base of your uncomfortable erection. This punishment is not a new one to you, Hannibal being very fond of leaving you with a cock ring or cage and a vibrator shoved inside your ass for an entire day. Hannibal gives your ass an open-palmed smack this time, likely just because it was there.
You press your head into the pillow, trying to brace yourself for anything that might happen next. You hear Hannibal walk away, you hear gentle soothing noises and five clicks, then claws scraping at concrete as five eager dogs hurry over to investigate you in a new light.
You can feel their noses, poking and prodding everywhere and sending spikes of sensation through your nerve endings at the cold wetness of it. By the feel of the head, it’s Gordon who finds your cock first. The doberman’s head is thin and elegant, short and silky fur rubbing against your belly as he dips his head down beneath your body to investigate the source of the musky scent. You can’t even breath as he sniffs once, twice, and his tongue comes out to give a broad lick to the leaking member. Despite the wave of disgust that grips your stomach, your hypersensitive body reacts to the broad, soft tongue the only way it can. You moan out, a noise that riles up the other four and they begin pacing around you faster, trying to find some sort of indicator as to what to do with you.
You don’t bother contain your sob of twisted pleasure as Gordon starts eagerly bathing your cock with his tongue, licking noisily at the now freely flowing head as if your precum were absolutely delicious. His tongue occasionally brushes low against your balls in his fervor, bathing your entire length with the hot, eager feeling of his mouth. You’re so lost in the sensation that you don’t realize Alexander is sniffing experimentally at your puckered, abused asshole. The first glide of tongue there startles you greatly, and the fact that it’s your dogs only seems to be further exciting you as they eagerly lick your most sensitive places. You’re moaning openly now, writhing and pulling at the pillow as wave after wave of mercilessly brutal pleasure churns your body. Three more dogs are still nosing, circling, whining in frustration. Until Peaches.
Peaches apparently discovered that your face and hair was the epicenter of the sweet bitch in heat smell you were radiating, and noses it up from where you have it buried in the pillow. He licks your face a few times, and just the taste of you seems to have him pistoning his hips in the air. You want to gasp out ‘no’ but the combined sensations of the tongues on your dick and ass have you lost. Peaches is on you quickly, paws awkwardly hooked around your shoulders as he pumps his hips in your face. You start to panic, trying to turn your head away but you can feel those hips bump your skin with every thrust, can feel as his long, pointed dick starts to emerge and swipe wet stripes across your skin. He’s coming out more and more and it’s starting to hurt, and you’re left with no choice. Tears in your eyes, you turn and open your mouth to catch his rapidly filling out cock between your lips. As soon as your mouth closes around his pistoning dog dick, his pace picks up into breakneck. He’s pistoning in and out of your mouth like a machine, the shepherd’s long cock slipping down your throat almost too fast for you to be able to breathe. He’s gagging you more often than not, and you can’t sob or throw up or even breathe. Your vision starts to fade, and even under the sheer panic and the sensation of dying, you recognize that the taste on your tongue is disgustingly addictive. Salty, fresh, the slimy texture so foreign and so innately pleasing. You also recognize the faint sounds of dogs bickering behind you, of Alexander’s large tongue withdraws. Gordon’s doesn’t, only increasing his enthusiasm as more and more precum flows from your erection. You hear Hannibal laugh softly, breathlessly. Suddenly, your mouth can’t open any more. You can feel a thick mass of flesh pounding against your lips again and again, your brain cries out that it’s Peaches’ knot.
Your knees feel weak.
Peaches cums a huge amount, a good amount of which is pumped down your throat and into your belly. However, as he’s cumming, the dog’s hips don’t still. He pops out of your mouth and bathes your face with a large amount of seed, and you gasp and cough and choke up semen even as he paints your face with more. You gasp desperately for air as he demurely withdraws to lick himself until his knot goes down. You don’t have such a chance to recover, though, as the sounds of bickering dogs have faded away and you blearily turn your head to look.
Winston had pushed Alexander, your big St. Brenard, off to the side. He was standing at your ass now, tail up. Was he protecting you? You pant and moan out again as Gordon’s tongue cups over your sensitive head. Winston’s ears perk forward and he rears up over your back.
“Oh god,” you rasp, trying to bury your face in the pillow again. You can feel his hips moving, rolling with some sort of frenzied reproductive drive. You’re probably holding your breath all the way until you feel that hard protrusion tear into you. You scream. Winston is a lot thicker than you would imagine, and he’s immediately pushing into you as much as his furry sheath will allow. He’s big, tearing your body open over and over again with each push of hips. Brownie has come around to your face now, licking some of Peaches’ cum off your face. His hips also start to buck and you sob weakly, open your mouth in bitter acceptance of your fate as your front is mounted as your back. Winston’s cock spearing you is soon joined by that of your sweet labradore, both of your holes filled by thick, pulsing dog cock. Your throat feels raw, and Brownie fucks just as frantically as Peaches did. Winston’s panting heavily, occasionally letting out what sound like pleased whines. His hind paw occasionally lifts up, scratching down your pale, already bruised thigh and raising welts in the wake of his claws. Your sides are scratched and scraped and occasionally a rough dog paw will scrape over your nipples. You can feel something (which your brain tells you is Winston’s rapidly inflating knot) popping in and out of you with painful frequency. You gasp and whimper between terrible throatfulls of Brownie’s cock, all the way up until the softball-sized flesh locks itself in your ass. Winston’s hips only move faster, and you can feel hot dog seed pooling in your insides and settling in your intestines. More cum quickly follows down your throat, more of it getting there than with Peaches, though some is still sprayed through your hair. You pant desperately for air as Brownie pulls away, feeling Winston trying to untie from your body with no success. He dismounts and turns, awkwardly stuck ass-to-ass with you and pulling uncomfortably on your flesh.
You burp up a bit more semen, letting it puddle on the concrete with what is by now a considerable amount of cum, between what’s dripped off of you and what you’ve spat up. Gordon has moved away from your cock now, and the empty feeling makes you want to squirm if not for the painful knot still wedged inside you. But then there’s another dog on your shoulders, and yes it’s Gordon this time. Your heart clenches when you realize his size, not the biggest dog but definitely bigger than Brownie and Peaches. You open your mouth despite the soul-gripping terror and take the massive intrusion immediately down your throat. He’s more forceful than the other two, instead of a jackhammer of speed he’s more intent on rocking your entire body with every powerful thrust of his hips. You wish you could moan, you feel disgusted. This is how Hannibal has gotten you used to being treated. The abuse only heightens your arousal.
Gordon cums about the time Winston forces his still much too large knot out of your body. You try to yelp, gagging around your doberman instead as he fills your belly with another huge amount of rich cum. And this time, he pulls back and you’re gasping with your mouth open, tongue out. You feel hot. You want more. You’re empty now and soon another dog slides into position behind you, Alexander. Alexander had been so patiently waiting his turn with your abused ass, and so you both let out a howl of sorts with his fat cock pushes inside you where Winston’s just was. This time you’re trying to rock back against the powerful dog’s thrusts, moaning openly and trying to lure Tornado over to get him off, too. The deerhound skitters around to your face and doesn’t take much prompting to push his cock between your lips, filling you up again. You shift your weight onto one elbow, fingers circling around Winston’s still out cock and stroking it. His hips start bucking again and he slides up against your arm so you can stroke him off. Your own cock slaps painfully against your belly with the force of the dogs pushing and rocking on you, filling your senses with scent and taste and sound on top of the sick, sick pleasure. You bob your head as best you can with the motion of Tornado’s hips, you squeeze Winston’s knot tight as if it were your ass and feel streaks of more cum dousing your skin. You pant through your nose, the shock having faded enough for you to remember your basic oral skills, and are so happy when you feel the heavy pulse of Tornado’s orgasm down your throat and on your face. You feel absolutely disgusting with the stuff now. Alexander is still pounding away at your ass, and you release your dogs to turn your attention back to Brownie and Peaches for the same treatment. Alexander knots you as soon as Brownie’s cock is at your lips again. It’s all happening so fast, dogs trading positions and humping on you without any regard for what you had to say about it. It was incredible.
Your belly already felt heavy from the amount of cum settling in it, both from being swallowed and from what was being shot up into your bowels. Alexander stays draped over your back, a lot more patient with his knot. You can feel some drool smearing over your shoulders and can’t bring yourself to care, too lost in the feeling of him continuously filling you with more and more of his almost scaldingly hot cum.
Peaches douses the side opposite of where Winston had came, and you take another load from Brownie. You’re looking around frantically now for a new target, and Gordon is back for round two down your throat. You manage, before your view is obstructed again, to notice Hannibal has taken a seat and that he’s stroking his own fully hardened cock quickly, eyes dark as he drinks in the sight of you. Of your ruin. Unthinkingly, you reach towards him. You want… what do you want? You don’t get any feedback until Gordon’s cum a seemingly more impressive amount down your throat, and then Hannibal’s in front of you, He seizes your drenched hair, both from deer urine and dog cum, and drags your mouth onto his dick. The taste and feel is so different, and yet you moan in relief at finally having his cock in you. Unlike with your dogs and their mindless humping, you’re doing most of the work on Hannibal. He lets you bob your head, hungry for more seed and careless of who gave it to you. You wanted Hannibal everywhere in that moment, for him to take his place as the alpha of the other beasts that ravaged your body.
Alexander forced his knot out with an audible pop and you tremble and moan. Empty, so empty. Your mouth busy with Hannibal, Alexander’s tongue is on your ass again, this time dipping into the slightly gaped hole and causing you to nearly collapse from sensation. Hannibal pulls out of your mouth and goes around to the other side, shoving Alexander’s head away and replacing his tongue with his own erection. He pumps into you viciously, though you barely feel the pain in your loosened state, exhausted from the fucking and stretched wide by the dog’s cock. His load joins the others settling in your belly, and you can only cry out weakly and beg for orgasm. Your dogs are gathered up before you even realize it, only aware when there’s no more cocks on and around you. You blink dazedly as Hannibal tethers the now-tired dogs back to their former spot. You can feel spunk starting to dry on your skin, you feel over full and slightly sick, but mostly desperate for orgasm. Hannibal walks up behind you, takes a wooden club off the wall, and promptly shoves it in your ass, twisting and angling it so it’s putting its full weight against your prostate. You cry out brokenly, shaking and sobbing at the sensation. You just want to cum, you want to cum so you hate this again. You want to cum so you don’t feel like garbage for wanting it.
Hannibal kneels down to watch as you struggle with the feelings racing through your body, your eyes screwed shut and mind on fire. You just want to cum so your brain stops whispering about how he’s doing this because you’re different, because this is how he shows his love. You loved your dogs, and he brought you your dogs. Under your care, he introduced you to something that you didn’t even know you wanted.
Your Stockholm Syndrome tells you he did it because he knew you wanted it.
Finally, his hand flits beneath you to remove the cock ring. The stimulation to your prostate and the gentle brush of his hand as he removes it is enough to make you cum an embarrassingly large amount, though it does nothing to dissipate the pressure in your guts from the good couple pints worth of dog cum that settled there. You pant and shake as the club is pulled from your abused ass and tossed aside, a plug being pushed in in its stead and set to vibrate lowly against the pucker of your entrance. You moan weakly, unable to fight it.
The last thing you see is Hannibal’s self-satisfied smirk as you fade into unconsciousness.