A dark transformation tale.

Once a confident young woman, Denise’s life is stolen in an instant - her body and voice reshaped to match the cruel desires of a hidden world. Taken, broken, and remade to exact specifications, she now faces a future with no path back, only forward as a silent, obedient pet, molded by unseen hands into a living prize.

Warning: Contains scenes of torture, brainwashing and graphic depiction of a surgical procedure, including blood

Full story to my deviation "The Perfect Pet":

1. Waking up

The last thing Denise remembered was the dull thud behind her - a flash of pain at the back of her skull - and then darkness swallowing her whole.

Now, she was awake.

Her head throbbed heavily, her mind swimming in confusion as she struggled to orient herself. She tried to sit up, tried to move her hands to her face - but nothing happened. No familiar sensation of fingers brushing against skin. No comforting pressure of her palms pressing against the cold surface beneath her.

Panic bloomed.

Her eyes flew open, wild and searching.

She was lying on a hard, padded platform in a dimly lit, sterile room. The walls were bare, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Suspended directly above her, an unforgiving mirror reflected the nightmare she couldn’t yet believe was real.

Denise gasped, a high, strangled sound - or tried to. But something was wedged in her mouth, keeping her jaw stretched painfully wide. A red silicone ring gag, locked cruelly in place, forced her lips open in a grotesque "O", drool already beginning to collect at the corners of her mouth.

And in the mirror, she saw the truth.

Where her arms should have been - just rounded stumps, ending cruelly a few inches above her elbows, wrapped tightly in clean white bandages.

Her legs - the strong legs that had carried her through long days of work, through a normal life - were gone too, amputated just above her knees. What remained was similarly bandaged, pitifully short.

Tears welled up instantly, burning her eyes.

She tried to scream, to cry, but the gag turned every sound into a humiliating, helpless whimper.

A door somewhere in the room hissed open.

Two figures entered - dressed in dark, clinical uniforms. One of them, a woman with sharp, efficient movements, approached the table and pressed something at its side. The surface tilted, forcing Denise upright into a humiliating seated position, her stumps dangling uselessly.

The woman smiled, a professional, almost casual smile, like she was explaining a standard procedure.

"You're awake. Good," she said. Her voice was cold. "You’ll be happy to know that your modifications went perfectly. You were a special order - very specific requests, very generous payment."

Denise's heart hammered against her ribs, terror flooding her veins.

"You belong to us now," the woman continued, almost kindly. "Soon, you’ll meet your owner. But first, some...adjustments."

She leaned closer, tapping the bright red gag strapped into Denise’s mouth.

"You won't be needing speech anymore," she whispered.

Behind the woman, the second figure rolled forward a tall stand holding all kinds of strange, glinting equipment.

Denise began to thrash weakly, her stumps flailing, her body jerking against the wide leather strap that pinned her waist to the seat. But she was helpless - so utterly, pathetically helpless.

The woman just chuckled and turned to the equipment, selecting something.

"You see," she said over her shoulder, "we don't just create pets.

We create masterpieces."

2. Silenced forever

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed coldly, casting a sterile glow across the steel and white of the room.

Denise lay strapped tightly to the surgical table, her body trembling.

Thick leather straps pinned her down at every major point - chest, hips, stumps - leaving no possibility of escape.

The door opened with a soft mechanical hiss.

A man in surgical scrubs entered first, masked, gloved, methodical.

Trailing behind him was the elegant woman Denise had seen before, her eyes cool and satisfied as she approached her new acquisition.

Denise whimpered through the gag, trying to shake her head, to beg.

But it was useless.

The woman leaned down close, brushing Denise’s hair off her forehead like a mother soothing a child.

"No more words, little pet," she murmured, her voice sickly sweet. "You don't need them where you're going."

Denise sagged weakly against the restraints, the tight ring gag stretching her lips painfully wide. Her muffled breathing echoed softly in the sterile room, each gasp shallow and uncertain.

The surgeon - calm, methodical - approached her, his gloved hands steady. Without hesitation, he unclasped the gag from behind her head. It peeled away with a sticky, wet sound, a long string of drool snapping free from her lips as it was removed. Denise barely had time to catch a trembling breath before cold fingers forced her mouth open even wider.

A hard, metallic mouth-spreader was slid between her teeth, ratcheting open with slow, deliberate clicks until her jaw was locked painfully apart. Denise whimpered, the sound wet and broken in her throat.

The surgeon lifted a syringe into view. He leaned in, finding the soft tissue beneath her tongue. Without a word, he injected a powerful anesthetic. Denise felt a sharp sting, followed by a wave of cold numbness flooding her mouth and throat, deadening everything below her palate.

The surgeon waited only a moment before proceeding. With precision, he clamped her tongue with forceps, drawing it outward into a helpless stretch. Denise’s eyes rolled in panic, but the numbness held her silent.

A scalpel gleamed under the harsh lights. Without hesitation, he pressed it to the base of her tongue. A sickening pressure - not pain, but a deep wrongness - filled her mouth as he sliced cleanly through the root. Blood gushed instantly, spilling over her chin and onto her bare chest.

The severed tongue flopped into a shallow metal tray with a wet slap, twitching once, twice, like a dying thing before falling still. Denise’s mind screamed, but her body was locked in place, incapable of stopping any of it.

The surgeon pressed a cauterizer to the raw stump. A sharp hiss filled the air, and the smell of burning flesh curled into her nostrils. Denise gurgled helplessly through the mouth-spreader as the bleeding was sealed, the wound neatly closed with practiced efficiency.

The assistants moved quickly around him - one swabbing the blood from her chin and throat with brisk, antiseptic cloths, another holding the instruments at the ready.

The surgeon wasn’t finished.

With another careful injection at the base of her throat, he deepened the anesthetic effect, numbing the delicate structures hidden beneath her skin. He then selected a slender scalpel and made a precise incision just above her collarbones, exposing the vulnerable anatomy underneath.

A retractor was slipped delicately into place, spreading the small opening wide. Using fine, curved forceps, the surgeon expertly located her voice box - the larynx - and the fragile cords within.

Switching instruments, he picked up a delicate crushing clamp, its jaws designed for this very purpose. Without hesitation, he locked it around the exposed structures. A sharp squeeze - efficient, brutal - collapsed the fine framework of cartilage and tissue that once gave Denise her voice.

Another tool followed: a set of fine scissors, which he used to sever the cords cleanly. The finality of the action was clinical, almost dismissive.

Her body jerked weakly against the restraints, a pitiful rush of air escaping her throat - no sound, no scream, only a wet, voiceless gasp.

Satisfied, the surgeon withdrew the retractor, folding the ruined tissues back into place. He closed the incision with surgical glue, pressing the edges of her skin together until the wound was neat and almost invisible. A thin, sterile bandage was wrapped snugly around her neck, hiding the work that had been done beneath.

The mouth-spreader was finally removed. Denise’s jaw sagged open, drool spilling freely down her chin. Her mouth was an empty hollow now, her tongue gone, her voice destroyed.

Without ceremony, the surgeon pressed the red silicone ring gag back between her limp lips. The assistants buckled it tightly behind her head, sealing her mouth permanently open once more. Saliva began to pool immediately, dripping onto her chest and staining the pristine sheet beneath her.

The surgeon stepped back, inspecting his work with detached satisfaction. One gloved hand brushed lightly over the bandage on her throat, as if confirming the silence he had created.

“She’s ready,” he said simply.

Denise hung in the restraints, drooling, mute, broken. Somewhere in the metal tray nearby, her severed tongue lay still, a cruel reminder of everything she had been - and would never be again.

Her voice was gone.

Her tongue was gone.

Her ability to scream, to beg, to even plead - all taken.

And somewhere in the sterile hum of the room, a lock clicked quietly into place inside her mind.

She wasn't Denise anymore.

She was just someone's silent, helpless pet.

And they were only just beginning.

3. Forgetting Denise

Time passed in a way Denise could no longer measure.

The padded walls around her were a constant, suffocating presence. The lights above were dimmed to a muted twilight, never truly letting her know whether it was night or day. Soundproofing swallowed every noise beyond her little world. In the heavy silence, only her ragged breathing - around the tight, immovable ring gag - reminded her she was still alive.

Healing was a slow, painful process. Her severed limbs throbbed and itched beneath tight bandages, but there was nothing she could do - no way to scratch, to touch, to ease the maddening sensations. Her stumps rested uselessly against her sides, leaving her small and powerless.

And they made sure she understood what she had become.

Every few hours - she assumed it was hours, though time was meaningless now - a speaker crackled softly into life. A low, steady voice spoke to her:

"Good girl, Pet."

"No hands. No feet. No words. Only obedience."

"You are precious because you are helpless."

"You exist to be looked after. To be owned."

It was soft at first. Then firmer. Then harsher.

Always repeated. Always inescapable.

Denise, or what was left of her, shook against the soft floor. She tried to block the voice out, to remind herself of her name, her life, her job, her friends - but every memory seemed to slip a little further away each time the voice returned.

The food came twice a day. Warm, bland liquid, poured carefully down her throat while handlers - always faceless behind masks - held her still. She wasn’t fed with utensils, not given a cup. Just a rubber tube and a gloved hand forcing her to swallow.

Beneath the helplessness, shame burned. She was nothing but a dependent thing now. A pet.

Sometimes they let her sit upright against a padded corner, carefully adjusting her limp form so she wouldn't topple. She realized quickly this wasn’t kindness - it was conditioning. They wanted her to associate even the smallest comfort with their control.

The worst, though, was the mirror.

It hung high on one wall, tilted slightly downward so she could see herself no matter how she slumped. She couldn’t look away. The sight was brutal: her limbless body wrapped in white bandages, her mouth permanently stretched around the bright red ring gag, wide helpless eyes staring back.

You’re nothing now.

You’re Pet.

The thought came unbidden, and Denise squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing around the gag.

But when she opened them again, the mirror was still there. So was she.

And bit by bit, she broke.

Not all at once. Pieces at a time.

A forgotten name here. A lost memory there.

A slip, calling herself Pet inside her own mind when the voice whispered to her for long enough.

They weren’t rushing her. They didn’t have to.

She was healing.

She was forgetting.

She was becoming.

Denise was soon brought into another room. It smelled sterile, like a hospital - but colder somehow, crueler.

Two handlers, masked and gloved, maneuvered her onto a padded bench, strapping her down carefully. Thick cuffs locked what was left of her arms and legs to the frame, leaving her small, trembling body exposed.

The ever-present collar clicked with a new attachment - a tiny device at the back, just against the base of her skull.

A soft mechanical hum filled the room.

On the wall ahead, a screen lit up. Simple symbols flashed slowly at first - a bell, a leash, a food bowl, a hand slapping a backside.

As each image appeared, a corresponding electric pulse ran through the device at her neck. Not enough to injure - just enough to make her jolt, to make her remember.

Then came the sound training:

Short, sharp tones - different pitches, different patterns - each one paired with another jolt and another image.

Food. Obey. Crawl. Present.

It didn’t take long for Denise’s mind, already fragile from pain and trauma, to start slipping. She whimpered against the gag still strapped cruelly between her teeth, drooling helplessly. The machine was rewriting her.

Teaching her that words had no place anymore. Only images. Only sounds. Only reactions.

Each time she hesitated - even the slightest delay in recognizing an image or sound - the shocks would intensify, burning into her nervous system the brutal rule: instant obedience, or suffering.

They played cruel games, too.

Flashing memories of ordinary life - a bed, a coffee cup, a pair of office shoes - things from her old world.

But if her eyes lingered, or if she showed any flicker of recognition... punishment.

The machine knew.

The handlers knew.

And they hated hesitation.

Her body shook uncontrollably. The line between her old thoughts and the new commands blurred more with every pulse.

No words. No complex ideas. No resistance. Only signals. Only commands.

Hours, maybe days passed like this - broken by harsh feedings through a tube, by brief cold rinses to keep her alive, by the mocking voices of the handlers speaking over her:

"Look at her... barely human anymore."

"Good little pet. Almost ready."

Finally, when her head lolled back, her eyes glazed and empty, her responses instant and mindless, the device beeped in approval.

Her language was gone.

Her mind - stripped bare.

Her soul - filed down to nothing but instinct.

And still strapped into the bench, drooling and broken, Denise - or what was left of her - blinked at the leash symbol on the screen.

She whimpered obediently.

4. Learning to walk again

One moment, she was still strapped to the training bench, her mind empty and reeling from the brutal language reprogramming.

The next, rough hands unbuckled her restraints, yanking her upright by the thick collar.

She sagged instantly, the absence of limbs making balance a pathetic struggle.

Her shortened legs - ending just above the knees - kicked feebly, while her arm stumps flailed uselessly at her sides.

A sharp tug on her leash brought her crashing forward onto the cold, padded floor.

The handlers barked short, clipped commands - sounds she had been conditioned to recognize.

One bark meant move forward.

Two meant stop.

A whistle meant crouch lower.

Her gagged mouth drooled openly as she tried to obey, her body trembling.

Pain flared in her knees as she forced herself up onto her stumps, her ruined arms scrabbling at the air instinctively before she remembered - there was nothing left to grasp, nothing left to steady herself.

Slowly, clumsily, she began to move.

Each forward motion was a brutal struggle, her body pitched forward in an awkward crawl.

Her stumps slipped on the slick floor; she collapsed again and again, her head cracking against the padded mats.

Each failure earned her a punishment pulse through her collar - sharp, biting shocks that made her yelp pathetically through the ring gag.

The handlers showed no mercy.

When she fell, they would kick her gently, not to injure, but to mock.

When she hesitated, they would drag her leash forward, choking her until she scrambled to keep up.

Every inch gained on her stumps was agony, humiliation, degradation.

And yet... she learned.

Pain taught faster than any kind voice could.

By the end of the first brutal session, she could inch along on all fours - one leg stump, then the other, arm stumps wobbling for balance she no longer possessed.

They made her circle the room, again and again, until the muscles in her hips and shoulders burned, until she drooled freely from exhaustion and fear, until her body shook so violently she could no longer move without falling.

Finally, one handler crouched in front of her.

He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her glazed eyes up to meet his.

"Good pet," he said mockingly.

"You're starting to understand your place."

He patted her drool-slicked cheek as if she were a favored dog.

Behind him, another handler approached - carrying something black and glossy.

A new accessory.

Denise blinked dully at the object.

It was a custom-made posture harness, sleek and tight, designed to hold her body in a rigid crawling position - forcing her back to arch beautifully, keeping her useless stumps neatly aligned beneath her.

The final transformation of her form into what they wanted:

Not a woman. Not even a person. A display pet. An obedient creature.

They strapped it onto her as she whimpered weakly, tugging the buckles brutally tight until she could barely shift her weight.

Then, the leash clipped back onto her collar.

The whistle blew.

And the handlers smiled as their newest acquisition - broken, gagged, mutilated - began to crawl on her shortened limbs once more.

5. Completed

Days passed, even though time meant nothing to her anymore. Her walk had improved significantly, but was still far from perfect. When her training ended they removed the harness, carrying her through a different corridor this time.

The atmosphere changed subtly.

The lights were softer.

The air smelled faintly sweet, like clean linen.

They entered a new room - one she wasn't expecting.

It was large, warmly lit, and dominated by a huge, luxurious bed covered in pristine white satin sheets.

Soft cushions were scattered around, and a faint instrumental melody played from hidden speakers.

The handler set her gently on the bed.

For the first time since her capture, Denise was placed somewhere soft, comfortable, safe - at least superficially.

She didn't move.

She just lay there, her small, mutilated body sinking slightly into the lush bedding, her breathing ragged around the gag.

The handler knelt briefly beside her, wiping her face with a damp cloth - cleaning the dried saliva and sweat - before stepping back.

"You did well, pet," he said, almost kindly.

He clipped a thin silver chain from her collar to the headboard - a gesture more symbolic than restrictive - and left the room, locking the door behind him with a soft click.

Alone again.

Denise blinked slowly, feeling the softness under her ruined body.

Flashes of her former life - confusing, ghostly - flickered behind her closed eyes:

The feel of a warm cup of coffee between her hands.

The hum of her car as she drove home after work.

The sound of laughter in a crowded café.

All of it felt impossibly distant, like scenes from a life that belonged to someone else.

Someone who had arms.

Someone who could speak.

Someone who could choose.

She swallowed hard around the gag.

That person was dead.

Only Pet remained.

She drifted into a restless, broken sleep, the white satin cool against her skin, the chain at her throat a constant, unrelenting reminder of what she had become.

6. Revelations

The door opened with a soft, deliberate click.

Denise wobbled slightly where she stood precariously on the bed, balanced unsteadily on her four rounded stumps. The ring gag strapped cruelly into her mouth made it hard to swallow, her jaw forced wide open, leaving her to helplessly drip saliva down her chin and onto the bed below, the pristine white sheets already stained by the slow drool that leaked from her stretched lips.

She lifted her head at the sound of footsteps, heart hammering against her ribs.

And when she saw him step through the door, her world tilted.

Mr. Carter.

Her former boss.

Recognition flared inside her like a forgotten spark - followed by a dizzying wave of unreality.

Memories flooded her mind:

Her hands, elegant and sure, flying across keyboards, signing contracts, brushing back her silky hair.

Her legs – long, shapely, sexy – often wrapped in sheer black stockings when she was at work, commanding attention without a word.

Her high heels clicking sharply, with every confident stride through the marble-floored halls.

The occasional admiring glance from passing colleagues.

She had been confident. Sexy. Respected.

Now, Denise drooled mindlessly onto a damp patch of white linen, her arms ending just above the elbows in useless stumps, her legs truncated just above the knees.

Even the simple act of speaking - once her tool for charming, persuading, commanding - had been stripped away from her.

Her tongue, once so skilled at shaping words and witty smiles, was gone - surgically removed, leaving only a scarred void behind the open ring of her gag.

Mr. Carter's slow, savoring approach drew her further back to reality.

He crouched slightly, leveling his gaze with hers, the smug smile on his face cutting deeper than any blade.

"Look at you", he murmured with mock fondness, tracing a gloved finger along the wet trail of drool slicking her chin.

"You used to walk through the office so confidently. Stockings, heels... legs that caught everyone's attention."

He chuckled lowly, the sound curling around her ears like smoke.

"And now?" he said, his voice tightening into a cruel whisper.

"Nothing but a leaking, stump-limbed little pet. No hands to grasp, no legs to strut. Not even a tongue to beg me properly."

Denise's breath hitched, her body shivering involuntarily.

Broken images flared again - the silky feel of tights sliding up long thighs, the satisfying clack of stilettos on stone, the power of a firm handshake.

All distant.

All unreachable.

The drool ran freely from her slack, gagged mouth now, soaking the bed further beneath her.

There was a hollow space where pride used to live - a space now filled with obedience, molded by endless, relentless training.

Somewhere deep inside, the broken, reshaped thing that had once been Denise purred at the thought of pleasing him.

She wobbled slightly on her stumps, struggling to maintain balance.

Mr. Carter watched her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth curving into something cold and possessive.

Then, with quiet finality, he gave the first command:

"Down, pet."

The order struck something deep inside her, and Denise responded instinctively.

She shifted clumsily on her stumps, lowering herself onto the bed.

Her shortened arms and legs, useless for real support, left her wobbling slightly before she settled on the mattress, her soft body folding awkwardly down without dignity or grace.

Drool continued to slide past her ring gag, soaking into the pristine white sheets beneath her chin.

The sight of her - gagged, limbless, docile - seemed to please him immensely.

Mr. Carter stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he looked her over:

"Perfect. Just how I wanted you."

Denise, drooling helplessly and unable to even form a word, felt a small, broken warmth stir in the hollow place where her old self once lived.

There was no fighting it anymore.

This was her truth.

She had no hands.

No legs.

No voice.

Only obedience.

Only him.

Forever.