#mister Peoter

[whumppsychology]

The Accident

This story has been tickling the back of my brain for some time now, so here it is. The first Cristabelle piece

Tw: pet whump, dehumanization, belting/whipping, hand whump, vague references to noncon drugging, elderly in distress(?)

The pet was arranging flowers when they first noticed it - the silence. It wasn't that it was unusual for the house to be silent, but it was the quality of the silence that unsettled her, pregnant and heavy, as if it was holding back a secret. With a jolt, she realized it reminded her exactly of her time at the facility. Then she heard it. The moan. They took off without a thought, knocking over a watering can and scattering petals and dead leaves with the speed of her departure.

She found Tanta Clara in the sunroom, just laying there. Their mistress had been laying hurt on the ground for they didn't even know how long and still all they could do was stare in mute horror. She had failed. She had failed so badly and deserved to be punished. Needed to be punished and here they still were thinking of herself like she was a human who deserved an option. Finally, they rushed into action, running to the phone and dialing emergency services. It took an agonising amount of time to tell the operator what was needed and even longer to piece together the words to explain what she thought happened. Pets didn't think. She was just a silly play thing and she hadn't had to use so many words in so long, but wasn't this their purpose? To mind their mistress and make sure nothing bad happened to her. But something bad had happened and she hadn't been paying attention like the stupid useless pet like she was.

The clouds had started to descend over her brain again and the next thing they knew, there was a flurry of EMTs blocking her line of sight to Tanta Clara. When had they shown up? Someone took the phone she was still cradling and hung it up before dragging her out of the room by her collar and shutting her in the kitchen. The last shot they saw before the door shut was Tanta Clara being loaded onto a stretcher and carried out the door.

It was dark by the time someone came to check on them. A tiny spark of relief ran through them when they saw it was Mister Peoter who had come, rather than his wife. He would do what needed to be done. Stupid pet. Here she was thinking again like she knew anything. It was all she could do not to burst into tears when Mister Peoter reported that Tanta Clara would be alright, that it was just her hip and that it was treatable. He was so kind to tell them! To not leave them worrying after their mistress and come all this way to deliver the news. She could tell he was working his way up what had to happen next, so she made it easier for him and asked.

“Please sir, I've been very bad, haven't I? Bad pets need to be punished.” They wouldn't presume to know about what they deserved, but maybe if she worded it just right, he wouldn't punish her for that as well. Not that she didn't deserve it. She had been so stupid. So careless. Not attending to her mistress - her one reason for existing. She deserved far worse than Mister Peoter would ever give her.

Somehow they ended up in the basement, they couldn't remember how, but she was kneeling on the cement floor next to the crate she had come in. She held out her hands as instructed, palms up, while Mister Peoter took off his belt. Mercifully, he didn't make her count but he didn't give her any warning before he brought the belt down across her palms. The first couple of strikes almost felt like a blessing. They hadn't been punished at all here aside from an occasional swat for touching something she shouldn't, but even those lacked any real heat and left her feeling almost… empty. Bad pets were punished. She knew that. Everyone knew that, but for some reason, Tanta Clara didn't ever seem to do anything about it. Maybe they weren't even worth the effort it would take to punish them. Here was a real punishment though, and it was one they knew was well deserved. He beat her palms bloody, then yanked at her wrists to expose the soft flesh of her forearms. She sobbed and thanked him all the while, trying to do her best to show appreciation for the correction. When he was finally done, her arms were a galaxy of mottled bruises while her palms cupped two tiny pools of blood, rivulets running through her fingers and dripping onto the concrete below. He tossed two bottles of water into the crate and signaled for her to crawl inside. Slowly, she did as instructed, trying her best not to put weight on her ruined palms or leave behind bloody handprints. After a stern reminder that it was for her own good, this she knew, at least this she knew, he threw some towels in after her to clean herself up with and locked the door. They thought they saw the ghost of a smile on Mister Peoter's face as he left, but it could have just been a trick of the light.