A/N: Eh, I don't really like this that much...because apparently it's impossible for me to write a halfway normal character that doesn't like kinky shit or pain or blood or anything. I guess it was a challenge. Anyhow, there's a bunch of rape and nastyness in this story so I suggest closing this window now if you don't want to read it already.

DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU. BECAUSE I DID. ONCE DIRECTLY AND SEVERAL TIMES INDIRECTLY.

And don't lie, Gustavo is SO gay for Kendall it's not even funny.

"Alright," Gustavo says reluctantly, loud as ever. "Free." He snaps his fingers. "You're done for the day. Now get out of my studio."

I grin, heaving a sigh of relief and turning to the others, clapping my hand over Logan's shoulder and exiting the tiny room. We start passing through the main part of Studio A, turning around and groaning when, invariably, Gustavo stops us.

"Sit!"

We all know that just means to stop and listen the fuck up, and so, dutifully (or maybe just a little scared) we obey.

"Kendall!" he yells, pointing a fat finger at me, eyebrows furrowing in anger. "Stay."

He waves Logan, James, and Carlos out of the room, the boys shrugging as they leave me to face the unceasing rage of our producer. Admittedly, I feel like crawling right out of my skin, because Gustavo's just staring at me with his arms folded and his foot tapping slowly on the carpet.

"In my office. Now."

I exhale, puffing out my cheeks and turning to head over to his office inside the studio. He sits in front of the recording equipment and waits for me to follow his directions, giving me that hard stare as I go into his office, leaving the door open for him behind me. Anxious, I take a seat in front of his desk, drumming my fingers on the surface and silently preparing myself for the impending attack.

I hear the door slam closed and lock but I don't look up, staring at the patterns on the fake wood of Gustavo's desk. I interest myself with the desk, ignoring the overweight menace standing next to me and pretending I'm not so fucking uncomfortable.

"Phone," he orders, holding out his hand. It's just now that I realise most of his commands are only one word, probably to simplify it for us morons.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket (with a little resistance from the fucking chicks' jeans they're putting us in) and drop it in his palm, gaze falling to the carpeted floor. Maybe he's planning on getting revenge for the time I pissed in his desk or something. Which, I'll have everyone know, was something I will never live down, and something that I had to do for the good of the band.

In any case, Gustavo moves to put my cell phone in his desk drawer, shutting it unnecessarily loudly and locking it. I guess that eliminates any chance of me calling the police before he murders me.

"You," he says condescendingly, standing right next to my chair and looking down on me, "Are a dog. And so are they. But they, sadly, have passed obedience class."

Funny. I don't remember ever attending.

I lean back in my chair, looking up at Gustavo's reddened face and biting my lip nervously. The guy really needs to chill out. Stay at a resort, or smoke some weed and get mother nature on his side like us. Or something. Because he has serious problems.

"I know you're not going to be happy with this, but the windows are now plexiglass after being replaced after you smashed them, and the door is locked, and you don't have your hockeyhead morons with you! So I'm just telling you that there's no escape."

You know, I honestly thought he was just going to lecture me about my bad habits and my tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the shit hits the fan. But really? I'm starting to freak out, because if he's telling me I can't escape then he's really got it in for me. I shift in my seat, looking more closely at the grain of the wood.

"I'm going to teach you how to behave properly. This first lesson will be easy. Okay?"

I nod, shuddering at the fact that he's actually being somewhat reassuring. Somewhat.

"First thing is, dogs don't wear clothes."

"Excuse me?" I splutter, feeling totally violated despite the fact that he hasn't even done anything. I swear to god, if he even goes and gets me a smoothie I'm pressing charges. I don't even care. The point is that Fatass Extraordinaire Gustavo Rocque just asked me to take my clothes off. That is where I draw the line.

"Do it," he orders menacingly, and by the time I'm standing up to, wow, throw my entire innocence out the plexiglass window, I'm totally shaking and my legs can barely support me. I remove my blue jacket, setting it on the desk and kicking my shoes off.

Grimacing, I peel my shirt off, trying to make this as fast and painless as I can, pushing my grey jeans down my hips and sighing as I step out of them and look up at Gustavo, standing there pathetically in my boxers and waiting for further instruction.

"You look at me when I train you," he tells me, reaching down to grab my chin and jerk it up so that I could watch him with wide eyes. "And dogs don't stand on two legs either, as far as I'm concerned."

I look up at him, feeling like breaking down in tears just from dealing with the embarrassment of the whole thing, dropping to my hands and knees. I continue to look up at him, avoiding any further confrontations on the subject, thoroughly discontented with my new vantage point because now all I can see is the obvious bulge in the front of Gustavo's pants. I seriously just want to throw up. The fact that I'm turning him on that much is just…ugh.

Gustavo lets out a heavy breath, going to his desk drawer and rummaging around. I have half a mind to get up and attack him and try to get my phone back, but instead I stay where I am on all fours and act like I'm really, really interested in the carpeting. Gustavo makes a low sound of approval at whatever the fuck he's dug up inside his unorganised desk, raising his eyebrows and looking over at me before returning to my side of the desk.

"I can't have my little pet getting lost," he mutters, and I'm a little disconcerted by the fact that he's using a tone that doesn't rattle all the walls in the studio. Although the relief in him not yelling for once is kind of cancelled out by the complete creepiness of what he said.

I realise that he's kneeled down in front of me, holding a thin piece of material and moving it to the front of my neck. I squirm, one of my hands instinctively shooting up to get whatever he's got away, crawling backwards slightly and earning a threatening look from Gustavo. He takes his hands back, narrowing his eyes. I stare at the dog collar he's holding, mildly concerned that it's pink, for crying out loud, but I really can't be worried about the colour choice.

If there's one thing I absolutely cannot have, it's things touching my neck. Like collars, for instance, although truthfully I never really thought I'd be forced to wear one. I shudder as Gustavo tries again to fasten the pink strip around my throat, swallowing hard as I feel the ends lock together. My instincts scream at me to do anything I can to get that shit away from my neck, but logic tells me that'll end badly. Gustavo already looks pretty pissed off, and I'm submitting.

Once he gets it on, he tightens it so that I feel constricted with each inhalation. I feel myself start to lose it, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. My chest hurts from trying to breath, and my knees and palms hurt from the scratchy carpet, and I'm just so done with this already.

"Kendall," Gustavo snaps at me. I'm slightly surprised at the fact that he used my name; I assumed that he would be using some derogatory term instead. I look up, whining slightly at the pain the collar's causing.

"Aw, you're such a cute little puppy," he says, voice so belittling. "Oh yes you are." He reaches forward to rub at my jaw line with his fingers, making me cringe away from the touch. I really, really hate him.

"Fuck off, Gustavo," I mutter at last, unable to handle just letting him do whatever the hell he wants anymore.

He goes very still and very silent, drawing his hand back before bringing it back down across the side of my face. I whimper pathetically, feebly touching my stinging cheek and looking down at Gustavo's shoes.

"Dogs," he tells me through his teeth, "do not speak English. Got it?"

He kicks at my collar absently, reaching a hand down to massage at the front of his jeans. "Now bark for me."

I refuse, staying silent. If there's one thing I'm not doing, it's this. Acting like a dog is beyond embarrassing, and if Gustavo wants to rape me or whatever, then maybe that's inevitable, but under no circumstances will I bark.

"Hey. I'm the alpha male. You do what I say."

"Woof," I say weakly, but apparently that isn't good enough because as soon as the word leaves my mouth Gustavo leans down and slaps me again. I wipe my hand across my face, the entire left side feeling numb and slightly swollen. I shift on the floor, drawing in a shaky breath as Gustavo walks around behind me.

"Dogs don't say 'woof', idiot," he says degradingly, foot on my back with the pressure slowly increasing. I groan at all the different sources of pain and the realisation that I can't really avoid Gustavo's demands.

I actually try to make a dog sound, barking loudly and letting the sound dissolve into a whine. Gustavo seems pleased and I repeat the noise, fingers digging into the carpet beneath me as he takes his shoe away and kneels down behind me. My heart sinks into my stomach as I hear clothes rustling and a zipper, folding my arms on the floor and resting my head on them.

"C'mon," Gustavo says, yanking down my boxers and smacking my ass despite the fact that I haven't done anything wrong this time. Except maybe admit the absolute humiliation I'm feeling at the moment. This is going to ruin my entire fucking career. This is my boss. He can't just-

"Hey," Gustavo snaps, hitting me again. "Why aren't you doing what I told you to?"

I bark unenthusiastically, sighing quietly and wishing that Gustavo's hands weren't currently all over my ass. I feel hot tears forming, my body shaking all over as I start crying softly. I hate being in this state of such denigration. I push myself up to my elbows, heels of my palms digging into my eyelids and making red explode in front of my eyes, not letting the tears escape.

I let out a painful sob as Gustavo shoves a finger in me, jerking forward and trying to get away from his thick fingers. I bite back curses because, oh yeah, dogs don't talk, one of my hands slipping down from my face to grip at my pink collar.

"Shut the fuck up," Gustavo orders with a rough jab of fingers, and I try to let the tears fall as silently as possible, sniffing and laying my head down on my arms again. I sigh, relieved, as he removes his hand, wiping it on his jeans and giving me a moment to recollect myself without that maddening pressure.

I look behind me, watching Gustavo free his cock from his pants, pushing his shirt up and stroking it to full erectness. Another vague dread absorbed me, because I really fucking didn't want that thing in me. At all. Not that it was that entirely big- not that long but decently thick- but the fact that it belonged to Gustavo just made me want to throw up all over the place. Now, before this whole terrible experience, I had thought Gustavo looked stupid wearing a bunch of oversized crap, but honestly, if I was a fat fuck like him then I'd try and hide it too.

He smiles mockingly at me, bracing himself with a hand pressing down on my back as he slams himself into me. I clap both hands over my mouth and scream, squeezing my eyes shut and tensing up, trying to shut out Gustavo's loud sounds of pleasure as he continues to shove his length into me.

I take in shaky breath after shaky breath, feeling like someone's stepped on my lungs. Gustavo grunts behind me, slippery fingers grappling at my neck and pulling on the collar. I collapse in a fit of choking, crying hard even at the repeated impact of his palm on my ass. He lets go and I cough hoarsely, tugging at the front of my collar as if that's going to reverse the effect.

I feel a sharp pain where he's ramming into me, one that wasn't there before, and feel my ass flood with warmth. I shiver at the altogether uncomfortable feeling, confused to see Gustavo upping his pace and still going at it, confused, I guess, to see that he obviously hadn't come.

Which worried the fuck out of me. Because I definitely felt it.

Gustavo pulls out abruptly, moving around to the front of me and jacking off slowly. I gag slightly, eyes widening at the mix of precum and blood coating his hand and dick. That explains some things.

"Suck it, dog," he demands, and my eyes nearly fall out of my head. I stare at him, feeling totally scandalised because god he is just unbelievable sometimes. There is no fucking way.

"Do you know," he says, voice low and threatening, "of all the sick things people do to dogs?"

I gulp.

"They skin them, they-"

"Stop!" I squeak, and he does, watching me with that look that suggests how inferior I am to him. I hate blood. And when I say hate I mean hate. And I hate fat assholes, and I hate people being rough with me, and I hate dog collars. But I'd rather suck his bloody fucking dick than be skinned or whatever the fuck he was insinuating.

I feel more tears coming as I lean forward, pressing my tongue to the tip of his cock and wincing at the metallic taste of the blood and whatever the fuck else is there. The thing's been up my ass, for Christ's sake. I try not to gross myself out too much, because if I puke all over the place he'll probably kill me or something, going down on him slowly and feeling the sticky mess of blood on my lips and in my mouth.

It's so disgusting. I gag slightly, and Gustavo takes this as an incentive to start moving, and at least it's better with him smacking into my gag reflex than it is to have to suck him off all deliberately. The taste of blood is overwhelming. I can't even look up at Gustavo because I'm so fucking grossed out right now. No amount of Listerine could ever fix this. And no amount of gym memberships could fix, well, that.

I tried a little harder for the sake of not being punished, hollowing out my cheeks and sucking gently, trying to use my tongue without vomiting at the taste.

"Good boy," Gustavo moans, and that's it for me. I pull off, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and seeing the sticky blood mix. Gustavo's expression hardens for a moment, and he looks like he's contemplating what to do about my disobedience. Apparently he's okay with my decision (thank god for that) because he finishes off by himself, shuddering and jerking forward as he starts to come on my face.

I close my eyes tightly, pressing my lips together to avoid getting jizz anywhere I can prevent it from going.

I look up and Gustavo narrows his eyes. "Clean yourself up, puppy. Eat it."

I feel my stomach turn over, but hell, at least this hasn't got my blood on it or whatever else was in my ass. I start the process of using my fingers to get the cum off my face, licking it off my hand and looking up, traumatised, at Gustavo. He gives me a skeptical look, zipping up before kicking me hard in the chest.

I let out a wheezing breath, leaning over further and abandoning my task in order to support myself on the carpet. My chest feels even tighter now, my airways feeling closed up and constricted. Although I know it's futile, I pull on the pink collar again, wanting it off, wanting to wake up and realise this was a horrible, horrible nightmare.

But the pain in my throat, in my chest, on my face, somewhere deep inside me, is so real and I know I'll never, ever forget it. Ever.

"Can you be a good dog now?" Gustavo asks me mockingly, toeing my fingers with his shoe. I feel another wave of tears come on, blurring my vision as I stare at the carpeting. "I know you're gonna want to tell your lawyer, but when you do hopefully you remember what I said about all those things people do…"

I slowly attempt to bring myself up to my knees, shaking violently and holding onto the chair in order to get up to my feet. I put most of my weight on Gustavo's desk, feeling unable to do anything, let alone put on my clothes. All I'm capable of is leaning on the desk and sobbing uncontrollably, feeling warm blood dripping down the inside of my thighs.

I hide my face in the bend of my arm, trying and failing to stifle my violent bawling, thinking about where the nearest payphone is so I can call the fucking cops and tell them of all the sick things people do.