The Client ran her hand over Number Thirty-Nine’s rubberized ears. She rubbed them between her thumb and forefinger and observed the earpieces carefully placed in the rubber. Before she could get a better look, #39 started to squirm.

The Specialist remained impassive, his hands behind his back. Glowing, unblinking lenses carefully catalogued everything the buyer did, everything she touched. She turned to him, grinning at the rubber pup’s gentle twisting.

“Is training, or a lack thereof?”

In response, the Specialist bowed his head slightly. It was a point of pride.

“They always keep something of themselves. This one was a squirmer before I found him. I increased the sensitivity of his ears and trained up his responses. He can be a very advanced companion. Trained in many disciplines.”

The pup wasn’t capable of showing off any of his many talents, considering his equipment. After being trained, processed, coated, and locked, his second-skin rubber suit had become all but a part of him. Several attachments had been added for his sale, as well as for aesthetic value. His black rubber suit was accentuated by a five-point synthetic leather harness that formed a V-shape around his neck.

“Like… fetch? Roll over?” The Client thought she was being very funny, punctuating her sarcasm with a high-pitched “Oh hoh hoh.” The seller didn’t respond.

#39 did, though. The rubber pup’s paws had been sealed behind thick mitts, which were locked in a wide spreader bar that was locked to his similarly-equipped ankles. It kept him sitting on his bottom, with his hands between his legs and his head bowed.

The client ran both her hands over the pup’s face, forcing it upwards and grabbing at his chin. “Does it have a name…? The tag here says ‘Veltro’. Some kind of greyhound? Was that originally his name, or was that your doing?”

The Specialist did not respond. Veltro wiggled, his latex-clad snout gently rubbing against the client’s hands. His clouded mind flashed to his last moments of freedom. Running, sprinting through a dimly-lit running path. Lights going out. A chase forcing him off the path and into old buildings.

He could hear the pounding of someone’s boots behind him. Locked doors. Pounding against quiet walls, his lithe body dodging blows. Jumping through openings and wriggling away from the pursuer. Veltro was slender and lithe, true to his name. Burnt into his brain was his last moment of freedom; struggling through a just-barely big enough air vent until gas began to eat away at his energy.

The heavy heat of someone’s slender form pressing down on him. His mouth open, jaw relaxed as his body was overcome by a dangerous cocktail of drugs and exhaustion. Rubber in his mouth. A gooey maw opening to lick him, leaving a trail of black ichor that spread over his body.

The Client’s words turned to mist as she and the Specialist spoke. Veltro could feel his mouth water. A deep, fat oral plug in his mouth kept him sustained. He could hear himself huffing through his mask, quivering at the thought of being bought, of being owned, of being controlled.

“I’ll take him,” she said.

“There was never any doubt.” Her new toy’s eyes were visible, for a brief moment, behind the tinted lenses of his mask. They were pleading, for too many things to comprehend. She turned away from her purchase back to The Specialist.

“There’s an idea in my head that I can’t get out. Something similar, but different.”

The Specialist raised his head, taking a hand to stroke his chin.

===

“Wasn’t me.”

Colt’s eyes didn’t have a steely gaze so much as a burning one. The man was busy using a bench-press, which gave him an excuse not to make eye contact.

He spent a moment to scan the entire gym. There weren’t many here at this time of night, and it wasn’t even that large - just the exercise room, a track, a small pool, and the lockers.

There was a receptionist who had very visibly fallen asleep at their desk. Someone was pacing around the pool. There was the man he was speaking to, who clearly didn’t want to chat, and Colt himself.

He looked at his reflection on the mirrored wall of the gym’s exercise floor and resisted the urge to flex. Colt was astonishingly proud of his body - if he wasn’t, he would be at the gym at 01:00 in the morning to exercise. It wasn’t just pride, it was comparison, too; it was not enough that he succeeded, he needed to look better than others.

There was no doubt that he was the best-looking stallion who had ever walked into the gym. Svelte waist, sculpted chest, and supremely toned legs. He could run farther and faster than anyone he knew, and he made it a point to meet as many new people as possible. The bright neon of his gym clothes was also “loud.” Much louder than the basic clothes this idiot on the bench was wearing, and far brighter than the dark clothes of the person who had been walking by the pool. He liked being the center of attention.

“Someone’s sweat was on the machine,” he said.

“You already said that,” said the presser.

“And it wasn’t me. It wasn’t the guy down there.” He pointed at the pool, which he noticed was now empty and the lights were off. “It wasn’t the receptionist.”

The receptionist shifted and emitted a snore.

“So, it sounds to me like someone forgot to wipe things down.”

Colt thought the man was annoying. He wasn’t just ignoring him, he was refusing to admit that Colt was his better. He thought of kicking over the supports, letting the barbell slam and bruise his chest.

He didn’t, though. Barbell’s chest was even more defined than Colt’s own torso. He knew a fist would hurt, maybe even bruise his gorgeous equine features. But he could take him. He knew he could. This was practically his gym.

“Listen, barbell. Just wipe down the machine next time. Maybe when you’re done with these weights, just grab a rag and wipe it down. Think you could do that?”

Barbell made a gruff sound that sounded like agreement. Colt was sweating; he’d just finished ten laps of H.I.I.T. and needed a break. “Good,” he said. He went to hit the showers, noticing that the receptionist was in such a deep sleep he hadn’t noticed either of the gym-rats raising their voice.

Colt threw his clothes to the ground. If anyone tried to steal them, he’d break their hand first. He was stewing as he turned on the shower. Water poured down the equine’s mane; three shades lighter than his chestnut brown coloration. Sweat from his laps mixed with water and ran off his body. He turned the heat up slightly, letting steam fill the showers of the locker room.

Behind him were a few rows of lockers and the other facilities. In a richer district, this shower would have had tubs and private rooms where servants would assist the visitors and clients. He wanted that, too; he deserved that. He deserved to be obeyed. He was wondering to himself what he’d do when he finished in here. Maybe he’d go back out and give Barbell a few more choice words. Maybe he’d give him a quick kick, especially if he hadn’t wiped anything down. Something for him to think about for next time.

He placed both hands against the wall for a moment to stretch. Water rivulated down his flesh, his groin, his legs to the drains. He breathed in.

The fugue was broken by a hissing sound. Something that sounded like an aerosol can. He turned away from the water.

“Don’t spray that in here,” he said. It was quiet save for the shower, and he didn’t see anyone. He heard them, though.

Loud, heavy boots against the tile. Clinking of metal against metal; buckles or straps. The hissing sound of breathing through a thick respiration device.

Colt rubbed his eyes and ears. A new sound; vandalistic scratching of claws against metal.

Colt was hot-blooded and standing in a warm shower, but suddenly he felt very cold.

It walked around the corner, placing one hand on the row of lockers to signal its presence before showing its full body. Inky, gooey villainy. Rubber of black and purple, glossy and shining in the harsh and cold overhead lights. Breathing through advanced filters in a climate-controlled suit. The Specialist took time to remove his trenchcoat, putting it on a hanger before staring at his prey. The equine was well-endowed and exceedingly suitable for acquisition. He was practically begging for processing.

The Specialist’s mask opened, revealing a gooey, drooling jaw. A nacreous tongue within extended. He could smell the horse’s musk from here, taste his fear, sample his supple flesh.

Colt’s eyes narrowed. His hands balled into fists.

Something flew through the air. The Specialist had thrown something; a pair of weighted spheres tethered together by a stretchy rubber cable. It wound its way around Colt’s legs, starting at his ankles and going higher.

The rubbery bolas was simple, but it would give The Specialist some time to savor the occasion.

Colt grabbed at the rapidly winding rubber and pulled. He flexed his legs apart, and to his own surprise - it snapped. The spheres harmlessly rolled across the floor of the shower, and the sheet of latex lay flat and clogged the drain.

The Specialist now knew that he was going to savor the occasion. He stomped slowly towards the shower, but Colt took the initiative. He walked out of the shower and threw a punch, going wide, then another, this time hitting the jackal-mask in the neck. He coughed for a moment, his suit absorbing most of the blow, but stumbled back. The Specialist knew he could take the assault, and was happy to let the stallion tire himself out.

Colt went in for a kick, then another, both times narrowly missing as the jackal dodge backwards. He parried a blow that the horse tried to deliver, responding with an elbow to the equine’s stomach. Colt went back on the offensive, pushing the jackal farther and farther back.

They circled one row of lockers entirely, with Colt now huffing and panting. He whinnied in a stressful expression of his fury and intention to show this bizarre pervert who he was dealing with. In his head he had already won, and was just showing off, just letting this jackal in a mask know it. He finally lunged at him, tackling him to the ground with a squeaky thud.

Colt’s nude body rubbed against the Specialist’s thick rubber. Colt reached up a fist to try and punch him while he was pinned, but the jackal responded with a reversal - he rolled, forcing Colt to the ground and himself on top. From his fingers extended a wide sheet of his own advanced latex. Colt could feel the villain’s weight and body pressing against his waist, and he tried and flailed to throw him off. The Specialist was heavier, though, and he used it to press the sheet of latex over Colt’s face. He gasped inwards as the sheet covered his snout and eyes, buckling inward as he gasped for air. He raised his hands to try to rip it off, feeling it growing and coating his mouth and gums. The pungent odor of rubber filled his nostrils, combined with the hefty girth of The Specialist bearing down on him. The jackal was preparing another sheet when Colt gave him a kick that sent him reeling.

The horse was able to scoot to the corner of the showers, still running, and worked to tear the latex from his face before he passed out. The glossy sheen was snug against his visage, and his lungs begged for air. He was just able to tear it from his face in time to see The Specialist, recovered, and crouching at the edge of the shower area. He was wearing his coat once again, and he could swear that he was smiling.

The jackal was smiling. Colt had a moment, sitting in the corner with water running down him, to see the malevolent creature’s glowing eyes. The Specialist planted both hands on the watery surface of the shower-stall. Electricity flowed from his gauntlets to the pooling water, and from there to Colt.

The horse, stunned and paralyzed from the shock, was easy prey. He’d spent too much time already, though, and the staff would likely wake up and notice the blacked-out cameras. The Specialist crouched over Colt, rubbing a hand over the nude horse’s head to close his eyes and moving his hand down over his wet form, past his chest, his toned waist, his manhood, and legs. His last moments of freedom before thick rubber coated his body and he disappeared into sacked anonymity, and from there out the door.

===

The subject was breathing heavily. Number 40, formerly known as Colt, was in a small isolation cell in his workshop. The Specialist had recently expanded his operation in size, if not scale, by expanding into a series of disused underground storage areas. It provided him with a space, free from his other projects, to work on Colt’s training and transformation.

He stared at him with a solemn, dignified respect. Colt had been given the standard intake for guests, permanent guests, and any project worth his time - a long-term advanced rubber undersuit, controlled remotely via a small implant on his back. The material had solidified from its original gooey state. No doubt it would be further customized and changed as Colt’s processing continued. For now, his generous manhood was kept up against his waist, and very visibly bulging through the suit. He was apportioned quite well - unsurprising, given his background. The equine’s wrists and legs struggled against their bonds; the Specialist idly wondered if the subject would be touching himself if he were allowed.

The suit was sculpted to mirror the horse’s physique, down to muscles and curves. At the moment, he was in a small cell with his legs and arms spread. Heavy metal restraints kept his stance wide, with a spreader-bar between them. A similar spreader-bar also kept his wrists held wide, and a series of tight orange nylon straps kept him from doing too much rocking. He didn’t have the space to slam or squirm against the padded walls. He was gagged with a ring-gag and had a basic hood that left space for his eyes and snout. The Specialist noted that Colt almost looked like he was smiling.

Altogether, he looked quite dignified and thoroughly defiant. He had a modicum of respect for that, but no tolerance for such resistance. None at all. A proud stallion like this would need to be broken.

He entered the isolation cell, locking the door behind him. It was small, barely big enough for the both of them, with black padded walls and a few strip lights in the corners of the room.

“Hello, Subject 40.”

Colt grunted, dribbling saliva from his ring-gag. He thrusted his body against the straps, straining against the gear and flexing his fingers in the air.

“That defiance is almost cute. I won’t allow all of that stubbornness to fade, but…”

The jackal grabbed Colt by the chin, forcing him to make eye contact with the doctor. Glowing eyes, the same that had stared as he was shocked and captured, pierced Colt’s armor.

“...but you will obey me. You will learn your place.”

Colt’s eyes narrowed. The room sounded as if it was hissing, and Colt broke away from the chin-grab to turn his head.

“This chamber is airtight. As we speak, it’s flooding with an advanced S-gas compound, suffusing the air with a lovely chemical compound. It’s not enough to warp you; I’ll need to do that. But it’s enough to soften you up.”

The Specialist’s clawed fingers gently traced from Colt’s upper thigh to his groin. Colt could feel his cock twitching.

“...enough to get you thinking about obedience. Enough to keep your mind cloudy. Enough to keep you from thinking about escape, or the outside world. Enough to make you mine. With a little work.”

The doctor grabbed Colt’s manhood, gently stroking it with his index fingers. Colt could feel himself getting hard. He huffed, snarled, shook his head in riotous refusal.

“Sshh… you can’t whine now. You aren’t really going to be ungrateful, are you? Your training is just beginning. If you don’t like my air, you don’t have to breathe it.”

Colt’s eyes went wide as the Specialist’s hands gripped over his snout. Moments later, the hood over his face was sealed and solid from the nose down. He tried to get air, flailing, inhaling, crumpling freshly-applied latex against his nostrils and ring-gagged lips. “Nnggh. Nn-nnngh.”

He started to shake his head again, but The Specialist was already opening the heavy, solid door out of the cell. Colt shook with impotent rage, his manhood flexing and fingers grasping. The Specialist said nothing, didn’t even look back as he locked the heavy door behind him.

Colt begged as his mind began to grow hazy. The Specialist had set the latex to open up, giving him a breath of gas… but not for another thirty airless seconds. He tapped a few buttons on the intercom, ordering his Lovely Assistant down to the iso-cell to monitor the subject. It was shaping up to be an extremely productive day, and he’d earned himself some relaxation.

His assistant peered through the single window to the cell. The stallion inside the cell begged, moaned, and shook against the bonds with a vigor he’d never had before. She eagerly grinned behind her own mask, staring as Colt’s willpower slowly but surely began to melt away.

===

When they took Colt for exercise and training, he would do it under duress. According to the Assistant, solutions had been found to avoid the usual worries that came from long stretches of minimal activity… but they needed him training regardless.

That meant that in the mornings, they’d leash his collar to a railing in the ceiling and motors would tug him along. It was that or more time in a low-air cell filled with nothing but hypnotic gas and dark pleasures. So, Colt was willing to go along with it… for now.

He was still proud of his body. He still relished the thought of breaking free, he just needed to find the right time. Some days he’d dig in his heels, with his hands tugging on the collar, until they’d come in and have a drone drag him to the exercise areas. It was thoroughly gratifying to make them work, to force those two rubber-clad Hounds to grab and move him. To feel their hands on his rippling, muscled body and legs. Colt knew he was the center of attention.

Exercises varied. The most common one was simply being hooked up to a heavy cart - real or simulated - and prancing to carry it along. The training involved speed and sustainability, but also handling. A smooth ride was critical, it seemed, and reacting too fast or too slow became quickly punishable by shocks or gas.

Watching from afar, the Specialist noted that Colt’s body was highly trainable, and that he clearly enjoyed being shown off. But he was just too wily, too stubborn to be a viable product. He smirked to himself with a sadistic glee, thinking with growing joy about tomorrow’s procedure.

===

Colt wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the clutches of The Specialist, but it was enough to establish a routine. He whinnied when he realized he was going to a new room; a lab filled with a variety of toys and tools and various storage units with personal equipment.

The main point of attention was a large, unusually-shaped object in the center of the room. It looked a bit like two park benches against one another; an inverted V-shape, but rounded at the top. Where the ‘seats’ would be were two long panels with padded areas for arms and legs. The entire object was contoured to fit a humanoid form.

Colt was surprised when his captors unhooked his leash and led him to the device. The Assistant placed the leash inside a small hole towards the front of the device, and it quickly sucked the cable in like a vacuum. The equine found himself pulled towards the large, padded, contoured rubber object and soon after he was willingly placing his arms and legs on the object.

It left him feeling… unusual. Exposed. Humiliated. He was on his knees in the back, and in the front he was on his elbows. His torso was supported by rubber padding, and his waist… well, his waist seemed to have a very sculpted area for his manhood. He could feel his body settling into place against the slightly gooey surface of the furniture.

“This is the saddle,” said the Specialist. “An imperfect name, but its symbolism works well enough. This is the object that will help you understand that you’re not a free-willed individual. You’re a beast, one to be used.”

The hood was removed from his head, including the gag. The room smelt thickly of rubber and an unfamiliar odor. He was already hazy, hot, bothered, and somewhat confused. It was all incredibly dreamlike. He was practically sinking into the rubber of the “saddle,” and he could feel it contouring to make for a more and more snug fit. It was thoroughly immobilizing, and that was before the Assistant got to work. Heavy metal shackles locked around his arms and legs, securing him in his thoroughly undignified position. He swallowed, thinking about how exposed his rear was, swishing his tail idly.

“I have spent quite some time custom-crafting an item for you. You’ll consider it a permanent, cruel punishment. It is no such thing; it is a gift. With it, I bestow the things you crave. You’ll be paraded around, the center of attention, at exclusive events and unheard-of soirees. You’ll be discussed, ogled, adored, envied. You might not always be aware of how good you have it, of course. The buzzing in your brain will occasionally subside long enough for you to realize just how kind I have been. With this gift, you abandon precepts of identity. With this mask, you can embrace your role as a beast.”

Colt tried to turn his head left and right to get a better look. He had a limited frame of motion, only able to rotate his head so much. But he could look ahead, and he could see the Specialist only a few paces away.

This was the best look he’d ever been given of the mad doctor. Thin, not nearly as powerful as Colt, but with a sanguine demeanor and a frame that contained a dark strength.

Someone’s hands ran fingers over his rear. Colt snarled.

“Get your hands off of me,” he said to whomever was behind him. He heard a feminine giggle.

“And why should she?” asked the Specialist. He stepped forward. “Why not? She enjoys you, clearly. She wanted to pet you, feel the swish of your tail, feel your body and legs. She wants to see the progress made with your exercise regimen, to test your reflexes without fear of you bucking.”

“She’s got no right to be touching me.”

The Specialist was his entire field of view. He looked left and right, seeing only the billowing jacket now covering his vision. He could smell the Specialist’s suit; the same as he’d noticed in the showers.

“Rights? What rights do you think she has ? For that matter, what rights do you think you have?”

The Specialist took Colt’s head in his hands, playing over his chin with his gloved fingers.

“Let go of me.”

His plea was ignored as the gloves gently moved to his mouth, tapping on his lips until he opened his mouth willingly. Inches from his face, the Specialist’s suit reconfigured as a long, thick shaft drew from his groin.

Colt knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t believe it until it was happening. His snout eagerly welcomed his captor’s manhood. Lips parted. Mouth eager. Lips and tongue eagerly working to massage the Specialist’s shaft. Head empty, unable to tell him to do otherwise.

Gentle pleading sounds as he went deeper , deeper, and deeper. A gasping as the jackal retracted, letting him catch his breath, before he went in again. And again.

Hands and feet squirming in their rubber and steel. Lips puckered, pert, begging for another, and then another, deep penetration.

“Mnn… mmmgn…”

Time fell away from the horse as he felt himself used. No, not used; that would mean passivity. He actively sought it out, to be pampered and touched. A fat plug penetrating him from the rear, inserting, going deeper. Uncomfortable yet undeniably stimulating, teasing against his hole and walls as he squirmed. He felt it retracting, the calibration of his plug complete, but he longed for its sensation again.

The Specialist grabbed the horse by the neck and forced his shaft all the way into Colt’s throat - just as the Assistant filled him from the rear. How he longed to be used like this, to feel ownership from both holes. Plugged and filled, horny and submissive, eager and begging.

His resistance manifested in whinnies and sounds, not calculated actions. Like an animal.

He’d shake his head ‘no’ while accepting his fate, grinding his manhood deep into the rubber of the saddle.

When The Specialist had had his fill, panting and huffing, he wordlessly ordered the Assistant to clean them both.

“You'll learn to crave this in time. Maybe you don’t appreciate it now, but once you're broken in and the replica is installed, you'll wish for nothing more than the real thing.”

Colt’s head lulled forwards. He hadn’t gotten a full gulp of fresh, un-altered air since before he was brought to the room. It left him weak enough not to notice or buck as they made adjustments to his suit.

Thick straps around the thighs with white trim. Thick layers of rubber that solidified into a matte plate around his manhood that swept backward, between his legs and around his hips; a perfect chastity device for the show-pony. Extremely endowed, #40 would surely be in demand - if his new owner decided they’d deign to use him.

Boots matching his station as a pony. Thick, heavy mittens ending in hooves. Metal bands and straps to keep them on. Carefully positioned straps around his bondage harness to accentuate his packed and locked manhood, to make the viewer crave that which they couldn’t have.

He was thrusting against the saddle, to no avail. Stars were forming in front of his eyes.

The Specialist took a seat to stare for a moment, ogling Number 40’s face for the last time. He was half-sedated from the air mixture; the long hours of training had had him perfectly susceptible for his processing. He was almost going to miss it… but then again, it was never really the beast’s to begin with. From the moment he’d seen him in the showers, he belonged to The Specialist.

The hood was uncompromising; a glorious and beautiful thing. The horse-head design had dark, ominous black lenses that would assist in his future programming and obedience training, as well as give him a thoroughly dehumanized appearance.

Below the eyes was the snout. Subject Number 40’s mouth was equipped with a custom bit-and-bridle gag, a padded object that neatly fit into his mouth. Of note was a special long dildo mounted to it - if anyone pulled back on his reins, it would force the plug deep into his mouth, tickling the back of his throat for punishment. It could be removed for service, if necessary… but the Specialist imagined that the hood would be on for a long time. Rubber melded together seamlessly over Subject 40’s face. Micro-perforations allowed his fabulous and still-manicured mane to fit through the back of the hood.

Beyond that, Number 40’s mask was kept to a minimum. The client would have her choice of gear. For now, the smell bag and air-tanks in the saddle would be enough, providing him with a steady dose of S-gas, pumped directly into his new rubbery face.

When they were finished, the Specialist sat back in his chair and huffed. A stunning, ebon-black beauty. Absolutely perfect. He shut his eyes behind his mask, allowing the occasional begging, moaning, mewling grunt to serenade him.

===

The client was standing with a wide-brimmed sun-hat and a pair of sunglasses. It wasn’t necessary to keep the sun off her skin - after all, she was meeting The Specialist in the middle of the night and deep underground.

She was, however, respectable in high society. Showing off slaves might be popular, but discussing their source was gauche. It was this kind of hypocrisy that made the doctor contemptuous of her kind, regardless of how well they paid.

And they did pay well. Number Forty had been immensely troubling at the start, but he quickly adapted to his new role.

He was magnificent. Black rubber and empty obedience.

“He’s still a horse, for all that entails,” he said. The equine’s tail swished slightly as the Specialist ran a hand down the back of his neck, rubbing fingers through his mane.

The client nodded. “Certainly. He is trained, then?”

The Specialist nodded. “He is.”

“How trained?”

“To your specifications.”

“Is he versed in carriage duty?”

T

he doctor nodded. “Yes.”

“Is he good at being a show-pony?”

“Yes.”

“Doing tricks?”

“You’ll have to teach them yourself, but he’s quite obedient. His brain buzzing with thoughts of obedience and rubber-clad servitude. I’m sure you can teach him a few tasks.”

“Labor? Any good at parties?”

“He will suffice, though your last purchase might be better.”

“Stud duty?”

The Specialist stopped for a moment. “Well…”

“Tsk. Don’t tell me that he’s not ready to be useful in every way if he’s not ready to be useful in every way!” The client was feigning hurt feelings. “Have you tested him out, at least?”

She was ogling his groin, packed up behind a heavy rubber plate. A few remote commands and it could become a bulge, and a few more and he could be used. The rubber worked fine, but he hadn’t had the time to test -

“I’ll try him,” said the lovely Assistant. “If I may, ma’am. We’ve had him processed for a few days now, but he hasn’t been given a release in quite a while. With your permission, I could give him a quick run-down and have him calibrated.”

She punctuated her words with a heavy spank to the pony’s rear. He grunted into a wide bit-gag. The Assistant didn’t let go, instead tracing her fingers from his rear to his groin. He practically quivered with delight at the knowledge that he was being touched, treated as an object of desire.

There was a moment of hesitation before the client acquiesced. “Give him a go,” she said,

“And report back at once. The doctor and I can discuss future purchases.”

The Lovely Assistant took the pony’s bridle and tugged him away to her private quarters. The client sighed and smiled, holding her hands up against her cheek. “I can’t wait to break him.”

The Specialist spoke up as the Assistant and the latest product exited the room. He addressed the client with a curious tone.

“More?”

“Ahhh… yes, more. What can I say? You make the best.”