#i won't be doing every single day of merry whump of may but there's a handful i would like to do with these two

[lilac-and-lemon-whumps]

Chow

@themerrywhumpofmay day four: “Shoulders back, eyes on me.” 

Movie marathon | Choking | Forced feeding

Takes place about three days after Diego receives his new pet. 

Part 1 | Part 3

Cw: vampire whumper/dubious caretaker, pet whump, refusal to eat, forced feeding, captivity, dehumanization, it as a pronoun, background lady whumper, Stockholm syndrome like thoughts for past whumper, fear of death.

“¿Qué haces, chandoso?”

Sometimes when Micah closed his eyes and listened hard enough, he could hear Miss Silva’s voice, repeating like the broken Luis Spinetta record Micah had once scratched and earned a rather memorable whipping for. More often than not, he didn’t even need to try, but only turn his head a certain way and feel Miss Silva’s palm on his jaw or the sting of a backhand.

“Stop that. I’ve trained you better than this.”

It could be night or afternoon. There was no way to tell in his windowless enclosure. Micah had long since given up on trying to keep track of the hypothetical days he’d been with his new owner. The only reference points he had were waking to the always dark room or when his new owner, Diego, he’d called himself, arrived to unleash him. Sometimes there would be food waiting on a tray at the foot of his bed.

“I should have listened to my friends. They told me to get a real cachorro, pero no, no, I didn’t listen. You know who else doesn’t listen? Tell me, Chow. Who never listens to me?”

Once there was a banana and some toasted bread on the tray. The next day there were two burned fried eggs and something that may have been mashed potatoes. It was always a different combination, never a pattern to it. But Micah was a good pet. He may have a new owner, but he remembered Miss Silva’s trainings. 

She would be so proud of him, wouldn’t she?

“Buen chico, now you’re remembering your manners.”

Micah was so, so hungry. But he could be good. He had to be. 

His wrists were sore. His owner kept him tied to the bed from time to time, only breaking the leash to let Micah walk around his enclosure for a bit or use the small bathroom adjoined to the space. It was an incredible reward to use a real bathroom and drink from a faucet rather than a bowl—and don’t get him started on the lack of a cage, the privileges were almost overwhelming—and Micah was definitely not about to make Mr. Diego think he was ungrateful, heavens forbid complaining about something as honorable as a leash. 

This leash is a privilege, chandoso. Remember that. I would not waste my time with a pet who did not deserve to wear my collar.

He remembered his trainings like a lifeline and welcomed Miss Silva’s memory lest he screw up and give Mr. Diego a reason to take away Micah’s treats. The hunger grew until Micah could only fall into a stilted sleep to distract from the aches. It was unpleasant, but Micah had suffered worse. And besides, the rewards always made up for the pain.

Tap-tap. 

Cli-ick.

Micah sucked in a breath as the door to his enclosure turned. Best behavior, best behavior. 

“Good evening, little one.” Mr. Diego stood in the door, another tray in his hand. When he set it on the bed, Micah quickly averted his eyes. Two oranges and a bowl of what looked like sweet grains. 

“Best behavior, Chow.” 

“Today we’re gonna try something different.”

Micah tried not to react. He liked the easy tone of his new owner, the melodic Spanish slipping off his tongue reminiscent of Miss Silva. What he did not like were those words. What had he done wrong already? He hadn’t ate anything like a good pet, so why—

Mr. Diego was still speaking. “You haven’t been eating the food I’ve laid out, and while I will be the first to admit I don’t know everything about, you know—“ Mr. Diego waved his hands in same vague fashion, laughing at some joke Micah did not understand—“it’s common sense that humans have to eat something every day. Even children know that.” Micah couldn’t make sense of the words so he didn’t try. His brain fuzzed out somewhere after you haven’t been eating, and Micah had to quell a proud smile that his new owner noticed his manners. Maybe he wasn’t in trouble after all.

“Hey, sweetheart, are you listening? Eyes up here.”

And just like that, the broken record. Scratching, scratching—

“You’re not a wild animal, Chow. Don’t act like it. Head down, shoulders back, eyes up here. Are you listening?”

Micah was listening. He was. He was not a wild animal, he was trained, he was tamed, he was a good pet, (he was so hungry), no, he was going to be good and earn his treat—

Snap. Micah’s eyes shot up to Mr. Diego who now stood next to the bed, head tilted down at his pet. Mr. Diego slowly retracted his hand where he’d clicked his fingers. “Hey, now. Let’s get these ties off you. I’ve got some better ones coming in but they’re on back order at the moment. Supply chains, you know?” His lips twitched in a smile. “Forgive the pun.”

Micah did not know. He waited patiently while Mr. Diego broke the leash on each wrist. Better ones or not, his new owner seemed to have an endless supply of this kind. Maybe Mr. Diego was as rich as Miss Silva. It was hard to tell in Micah’s enclosure, but he vaguely remembered passing a sprawling driveway the night he’d been transported.

When the leash was gone, Micah tensed. Mr. Diego had never waited around like he did now. Either the tray would be at the foot of the bed, or it would not be. 

Watching his owner from the corner of his eyes, Micah realized. This must be the final test to show his new owner Micah’s manners. If that was the case, Micah was set. Miss Silva may be—Micah blinked away the thought—but he would make her proud. He would. 

“I’m almost certain I know there won’t be an answer to this,” Mr. Diego spoke as if more to himself, “but I may as well try anyway. Will you tell me why you haven’t been eating, little one?”

Little one. Micah quite liked the term. It was different than Chow. 

Mr. Diego waited. The silence stretched. 

See. Micah was such a good dog. Maybe Mr. Diego would call him that name again. 

“Of course. Alright, erm.” Mr. Diego hummed before snatching up one of the oranges and started to peel it. It only took but the first swipe of his claw-like-nail to demolish a quarter of the orange, peel nearly intact. 

Micah stopped a laugh just in time. Silly master. People can’t eat dog food. 

“Well, that was a bust.” Micah’s owner grumbled to himself and picked up the other orange, still whole. The humor that had bubbled in Micah’s throat quickly died when Mr. Diego reached out his hand as if to give Micah the ball shaped fruit. 

“I need you to eat for me, sweetheart. I don’t know why you haven’t yet. Faria doesn’t think you could be allergic to everything I’ve tried so far, so I need you to either tell me what’s wrong or I’ll have to feed you myself. And I think we both can guess how much I’d rather not do that.”

Sweetheart, Faria, allergic. It was a jumble of mishmash lost in the record of eat for me, eat for me, eat for me. 

“I haven’t given you permission yet, chandoso. What pet eats before its Mistress? If you can’t remember a simple rule, maybe the cage will remind you.”

“Hey, hey. What’s wrong? I don’t know how to help you if you don’t speak up, but there’s no—“ “Stop that. Dogs do not speak. Head down, shoulders back. Eyes on me.”

“—reason to start crying, sweetheart.” Micah’s owner rubbed his own face, irises the color of autumn leaves deepening in thought. Miss Silva’s were—had been (no, don’t think about it)—a darker shade of currant, almost black when Micah screwed up. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he said again, “but I think food will help. You and me both, that is, because even I’m not a dick enough to feed from you when you’re this…”

If Mr. Diego finished his sentence, Micah didn’t hear it. What did Mr. Diego mean, feeding from him? Micah must have heard wrong. Because Micah was a pet. Micah wasn’t food. Didn’t Mr. Diego have the right animals for that? 

Good dogs were pets. Bad, bad animals were food. 

Unless….

“I promise I do not want to hurt you,” Mr. Diego was saying as he gave up on the orange and brought the untouched bowl over to Micah. “But this is for your own good, little one. Open your mouth for me. Shoulders back, sit up now.” Shoulders back, eyes up here. You’re not a wild animal. Bad, bad animals get their blood drank and thrown away. Won’t you be a good Chow?

The second his new owner forced Micah’s jaw open, Micah could only cry out. Of course he had no claws or fangs like Miss Silva or Mr. Diego to protect himself. But his new owner was far too strong for him to even consider struggling anyway, and the horror of the situation was only finally hitting Micah in full force. He was supposed to be a pet. That’s what he was trained for. 

Not food.

Micah broke the number one rule. 

“Sir, I-I can be good. Please.”

He spoke. He did, but…wasn’t he justified? Miss Silva hadn’t given him permission to eat (but Miss Silva’s…no, don’t think, you can’t think about that) and now Mr. Diego was going to make him disobey. 

Mr. Diego’s eyes grew wide. “Would you look at that. So you can speak."

A tremor laced Micah’s heart. He didn’t dare commit another infraction. How long had it even been since he’d lost spoken? 

Micah waited for the slap or the claws to come. If Micah feared right, would Mr. Diego use his fangs? Of all the things Miss Silva used to reprimand Micah, she had made it clear what Micah’s purpose was. 

But now? Micah was so very lost. 

“Scare easily, huh,” Mr. Diego muttered. “If you can be good, why are we doing this the hard way? Oh come now, there’s no need for that.” 

Setting the bowl down on the bed’s side table, he cradled the back of Micah’s head with one hand, all strong muscle and sinew keeping Micah in place. Micah remembered how Miss Silva would grab him similarly. Instead of Mr. Diego keeping Micah immobile, though, Miss Silva had a preference for yanking Micah by the hair until clumps fell out in patches. It had grown out in the recent past, but maybe Micah’s new owner wouldn’t want to keep it that way.

“Alright, shhh. Wipe that look off your face, little one. I’m doing this for your own good, you know.”

With his other hand, Mr. Diego reached down and pinched Micah’s nose to halt the airflow. For the first few seconds, Micah used all his willpower not to struggle. It was instinct to try to pull back, but what is instinct to a trained dog? 

But Micah was not like his superiors. He was more than aware of his own weakness before this figure, and that was disregarding the fact he’d had nothing to fill his stomach but water in the past however many days it had been. Unable to grasp what purpose his new owner intended for Micah, on top of his already weakened state, Micah lost the battle quickly. Chest burning, lungs aching, Micah could only drop his mouth in desperation and gasp for air. 

But there was hardly a reprieve because only a second later, Mr. Diego was forcing the first spoonful of sweet grains down Micah’s throat. The thought of it not staying down was enough for Micah to clench at the bedsheets, stomach curling in fear. It never even crossed his mind to try to push away with his hands now freed. 

Micah was eating.

Micah was a bad, bad dog.

“Swallow, sweetheart. Stop crying, you’ll choke. You need to eat.” 

And everyone knows what happens to bad animals. 

I want to be good. 

I need to be good.

Please. 

"You’re lucky, you know,” Miss Silva liked to say, the words a brand in Micah’s mind as the next spoonful burned a hole down his throat. 

“You’re lucky that I only call you Chow.”

*

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @deluxewhump @thecyrulik @melancholy-in-the-morning