You look like you need a pet rat.

I know the Bomba good enough for the job...

I meant rat. Pet Bomba. A pet Bom-

Damn it, did it again. A pet ra-Bomba.

I think the universe is trying to tell us something.

I just want to be shrunk down and forced to kiss your ass all day.

Simple rat, simple needs.

You sign a contract with the CEO of some company. He's made an alluring offer.

All your crimes, all your debt, everything that has ever troubled you... gone. All for the low price of being his pet.

You didn't read the contract. But... you signed. Your burdens are too much.

Once it's signed and the legal lawyers and notaries verify the gigantic otter digs a claw into your shirt, ripping it easily. All before they tear the pants off you. "Pets don't wear clothes."

You, objecting the whole time, plead at the retreating lawyers as they leave. Uncaring.

Nude, on a table, the otter unbuttoned his pants, pulling up his shirt to reveal his tummy before proping his underwear open.

"Get in."

Before they had such a nice conversation. It was tender and sweet. The complete opposite of this commanding titan.

Without warning, the hand holding the shirt up moved behind him, grabbing the entirety of you roughly and pressing you into his sheath for safe keeping. Your musky travel carrier as the CEO gets back to work for the day.

That night he gives you a low down on what is to be expected of you. Putting you in a clear jar as he talks about what to expect from your new life.

Seems reasonable until he tells you that since you're property, you can be used. However he wants. You chose this.

He undresses infront of you, no shame like what you had been showing. Why would he have shame when only a tiny pet is looking?

He gets into bed. Looking st his phone, looking up very specific key terms in a porn site you've never seen before.

His dick gets hard.

He's going to jack it in front of you! All while showing you the video on his phone.

A video depicting some giant cruelly rubbing a micro on his dick. Unworried about their pain or misery as the rubbing continues. Before it ends, he switches to one involving a dog's paw.

The torturous things you saw on that phone. The worry about your own safety as the otter shot his load.

After recovering and cleaning up, they looked at the glass jar housing you. Looking at you like you were an afterthought. Only realizing that you had witnessed everything.

"Don't worry, Squeaker, you'll last longer."

That was the name he gave you. Your last identity sold. Your new identity... a worried future.

Do I know anyone going to blfc?

Thinking of giving it another try.