This story involves Pokemorphs. And humans. It's rated MA. Connect the dots. If that kind of thing disturbs you, please turn away now.

Rated MA for sexual themes and swearing. But allow me to say now that this isn't a porn story. Wait, lemme rephrase that. There's sex, but I try not to make it explicit or excessively detailed for the pervs lingering out there, because this story simply isn't meant to appeal to that kind of crowd. It's supposed to be a simple romance, and if I feel sex is necessary to advance the plot I won't shy away from describing it. Think you can handle that? Great! Read on, and please R&R if you enjoy it.

...

Kira

Chapter 1

The motel was a seedy, dirty building, notorious for both the near-offensive décor it sported and the rumours of the singularly unsavoury dealings that supposedly occurred inside. Situated at the outskirts of the city where the maze of buildings met the long, endless road, it frequently elicited contemptuous snorts and fearful shudders from passing city folk and passing motorists alike. Backpackers seldom entered it. Policemen never did. It was an understanding that the sordid business it housed appreciated.

The night when Joe decided to pay another visit, it was pouring. Fighting the powerful winds that ripped at his trenchcoat, he climbed out of his car and stumbled through the parking lot. The lobby he entered was poorly lit, painted a grotesque shade of mauve, and sparse, with little in the way of furniture bar a couple of dusty armchairs and a counter. And behind that counter stood a familiar, ugly face.

"Hey, Joe."

"Hi, Grisby."

"Quiet night, huh?"

"Nah. We had a group of teenage punks in here a while ago. Didn't really like the looks of them, so I threw them out myself once they were done."

The receptionist grinned. He was an imposing, burly figure, about 6 feet 10, maybe 7, and with a toothy smile that showed off more gaps than teeth.

"So, how bout you? Been a while since you came here last."

"Work's been tough."

The customer sighed, then pulled off his trenchcoat and chucked in on a stool, leaving it to drip water on the concrete floor. He ran a handkerchief through his short brown hair.

"You need a drink first?"

A smoking gasoline lamp burned in the corner with a sickly green flame. Joe absentmindedly watched it flicker.

"Yeah. I think I do."

Grisby reached under the counter, fishing a can of beer from amongst the mess of crumpled papers and wrappers. With a deft flick of his thumb he popped it open. He handed it to Joe, who reached out a gloved hand and took it appreciatively.

"Thanks."

"Hey, no worries. Freebie to a loyal customer. You here for the usual, then?"

"Yeah. Bosses been giving me a whole load of shit. I need to blow off some steam. What's on the menu?"

Grisby snorted in amusement, a deep, nasal sound. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his grubby jeans.

"Let's see here," he started, reading down the list. "That Star'via chick you had last time's on duty tonight. I think there's a Mightyena girl in the room down the hall. Then there's also a Pika-girl, a Sneasel, and a couple of Eevee-lutions, but I think they'll need a bit of rest after what those punks did with them."

Joe shook his head.

"Look, Grisby, when I say my bosses have been giving me shit, I mean it. I've had those girls before, and they're pushovers. I want a morph with a bit of fight. A bit of a challenge, you know? One I can really take, if you get my drift."

The receptionist laughed. "Yeah, I get what you mean. Well, we've got a new arrival this week. Ninetales, I think. Fresh from the lab. Haven't seen much of her myself, but I hear she's a fighter. Ain't been broken yet."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice dramatically. "I ain't actually supposed to give anyone access to her for a couple of weeks. Adjustment period, y'know, SOP. But you're a loyal customer, so I'm sure I could make you a lil' exception this time. Sound good? Think ya up to it?"

Joe sucked the last few drops of beer from the can, then chucked it over his shoulder and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The alcohol sat contentedly in his stomach, and he appreciated its comfortable warmth. "How much?"

The big, ugly man smirked. "You tell me once you're done."

...

Grisby led Joe up a flight of stairs. They emerged in a dark, musty corridor, which the duo promptly covered before stopping in front of the door at the very end.

Joe sniffed the air. There was a faint scent of lavender wafting from the room beyond, and orange light filtered from beneath the door. He took a deep breath.

"You good?" asked Grisby.

The hallway was silent. No sound came from the room. The light from beneath the door flickered like fading tongues of fire against the far wall.

"You sure she's dangerous? She doesn't sound dangerous."

The big man shrugged. "You never know."

"She's been fitted with the collar, right?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be a threat to you. But you remember something. They were Pokemon before them weird-ass lab guys got their hands on them, and they still are. You just go in there, show her who's boss; y'know, the whole master-and-slave jazz, and she wouldn't dare do shit to you. It's part of their natural instinct, to obey. You go in there, be in charge, and stay in charge."

Joe smiled. "C'mon, man. I've done this before. I'm not new to this or anything."

"Yeah, yeah. Friendly reminder, y'know. I'm off."

Grisby turned and strolled back down the corridor, whistling loudly. Joe slowly opened the door.

...

The first colour he saw was orange: the lighting, the furniture, the ambience. A small scented candle stood on the cracked mantelpiece, burning with a dim crimson flame. The walls were painted a faint peach, but completely bare, as was the floor. In the middle of the room was a bed.

He walked in, taking another look around the room. The morph was seated on the edge of the bed, back turned to him and hands folded on her lap. She didn't flinch in the slightest as he entered. Her lush, feathery tails were spread carefully over the bed, such that he could barely tell where they ended and the sheets began.

He shut the door behind him. Her triangular ears pricked up at the sound, but the rest of her didn't move. For a while he stood there, admiring her; the tendrils of long, smooth hair that flowed over her shoulders and her back, pooling gently on her thighs and backside, and her creamy-white fur, lustrous and unblemished, which perfectly accentuated the soft curves of her naked body.

She seemed almost serene as she sat there, ignoring his presence, but there was a tenseness in her supple muscles that he easily noticed. He readied himself. "Hey," he called. "Turn around."

The Ninetales continued to ignore him. He shouted again, and stepped forward.

That was when she pounced. Her ears flattened against her skull, and with a swift kick she was off the bed. She landed on all fours and in one impossibly fluid motion lunged at him, so gracefully that it seemed to him more like a strange, kinetic dance than a calculated attempt on his life.

Having expected the attack, he deftly leapt to a side. The Ninetales girl hit the ground loudly, rolled, and for a moment stared at him, her large eyes, crimson like the fire, somehow narrowed in fury yet wide in terror at the same time. The eyes of both a trained killer and cornered victim. He stared back at her, watching her with no small amount of amusement. She looked almost like an actual Ninetales in that position, tails flared out behind her, and an unconcealed, feral fear in her eyes.

Her muzzle parted in a tentative growl, baring her teeth. Before it escaped her lips, the metal collar around her neck activated and she crumpled onto the floor, screaming in a voice that sounded strangely human. Her soft, feminine form racked with convulsions as the collar did its job, and when it finished she lay in a whimpering heap on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her chest and sobbing loudly.

The sight of the morph lying hurt on the ground jolted something in him, but he pushed it aside. Show her who's boss, he remembered. Besides, she had just tried to kill him. He knelt down beside her prone form, tilting her chin up and staring fiercely into her tearful eyes. She met his gaze head on, but didn't try to worm away.

"Grisby was right. You're a fighter, aren't you?"

Those beautiful crimson eyes flickered for just a moment, but she didn't reply. He smirked.

"Come on, sweetie, I know you can talk. Any Pokemorph smart enough to bide her time and ambush me like that must have some kind of higher brain function."

The morph forced herself up and pulled away from him, a hand going up to the collar around her neck. He shook his head threateningly, then lunged forward and grabbed her by the wrists. She struggled against his grip. He yanked her onto her shaking feet.

"Look here, girl," he said, pulling her closer. "Don't talk if you don't want to. I don't care. In fact, I don't give a shit whether or not you open your mouth. But bottom line is, you're stuck with me for the night. Obey me like the good girl you are, and I can make it worth your while. But if you dare fight me or attack me like you just did, that collar isn't the only thing that's going to make you regret it."

She stopped struggling and stared up at him, her eyes wide and tearful. She blinked once, twice. He bit his lip so hard he almost tasted blood. She was a smart one, this girl.

Then suddenly, she spat on him, the glob of saliva hitting him squarely on the face. Her expression took on a fierce, unyielding defiance. He brought a hand to his face, slowly, like he'd seen in the movies, and wiped the spittle away. Then he slapped her hard across the cheek, so hard that she stumbled backwards and fell on the bed on her back. In an instant he was over her, one hand pressing her wrist into the mattress and the other on her throat.

She growled softly and squirmed. She was crying again, and rivulets of tears ran down her face and onto the sheets. He was angry, but as he saw her cry, he realized he was scared. Scared, inexplicably, of himself. Nonetheless he continued, determined to finish what he had started.

"Not very smart, was that?" he hissed.

The Ninetales continued to stare at him, her crimson eyes pleading and desperate. She remained silent.

"I'll ask you this once, and I want a response. Will you, or will not let me be your master for the night?"

He lifted his hand from her throat. He picked up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers, admiring its silky smoothness. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.

"I want an answer."

No response.

"An answer, goddamnit! Speak! I know you can!"

He brought his arm down on her other wrist, pinning her against the bed. He wasn't a light man by any means, and the Ninetales yelped softly when he pressed his weight against her.

Deep inside him, something hurt. He tried to ignore it, but it was getting harder to do so. The morph trapped under his grip was a beautiful, delicate creature, and certainly didn't deserve what he was doing to her. Doubt took root in his mind, and he wanted desperately to stop. But he was already too far gone. He couldn't back down anymore, even if he wanted to.

"Please let go of me."

He almost gasped, but he kept silent. He tilted the morph's head to face him.

"I knew you could speak. Why didn't you?"

"I only speak," she said, "when I have something to say."

Her voice had a strangely hypnotic quality to it. She spoke with an odd accent that he recognised as being normally strong and resonant, but at the time simply came out as scared and weak. But who could possibly blame her? She had every right to be terrified of the violent, cruel man about to force himself upon her against her will.

He shook the thought from his head.

"Then speak," he growled. "I still expect an answer."

"If it will save me further pain and humiliation, then yes."

Her words, calmly yet tearfully spoken, struck a sensitive chord with him. He searched her face, expecting to find a cunning smirk on her lips or in her eyes, but her expression had become one of resigned placidity, and those gorgeous crimson pools shone from behind half-closed eyelids. There was still bitterness in her, he was sure, but she was trying to mask it, afraid to provoke the same show of violence she had suffered not ten seconds ago.

"Good," he said, his image of ferocity and dominance wavering.

Wordlessly, he picked her up and lifted her fully onto the bed, then positioned himself squarely over her. She said nothing as he did so. He knelt over her and began to undress himself, quickly undoing his belt and buttons, and threw his clothes carelessly onto the worm-eaten sofa nearby. Before he began he took a moment to look at the stunning body beneath him once more; his gaze tracing her long, slender legs, her toned, tight stomach, and lovely breasts, which were full and soft in the dim candlelight. But even though his eyes were open he barely saw her, and the sight of her did not arouse him as much it should have.

He went into her roughly and hurriedly, slipping his hands under her waist and shoulders and lifting her slightly off the sheets. She seemed to get a bit of fight back in her as he did so, clawing weakly at his back and growling into his ear, but he ignored her feeble resistances and continued. She wasn't the slightest bit into it, but he spent no time or effort trying to help her. When he was done he rolled off her and stared sorrowfully at the ceiling while she lay, seething quietly, by his side.

For a while they lay there, both solemn, both silent. After the initial rush of hormones that had gripped him had subsided he began to loathe himself for what had been done. But it was too late. It had been too late from the moment he'd entered the room.

He turned to face her. She turned to face him as well, her pretty features contorted by anger, then turned away again. He wanted to say something, but what was there to say?

The silence was intense, broken only by the pitter-patter of raindrops against the fogged-up window. Eventually he climbed out of bed and pulled on his clothes. When that was done he walked quietly to the door.

As he reached for the doorknob, he turned and gave the Ninetales-morph a final parting glance. She was sitting up on the bed, arms hugging her long legs to her chest, her tails spilling messily all over the grubby blankets. She hadn't bothered to cover herself up in any way, not with a sheet or even her hands. Instead she stared intently at the small candle flickering in the corner of the room, watching blankly the tall shadows it cast against the plain beige wall.

The sight of her sitting there, forlorn and hurt, was the final straw. His earlier determination to dominate and control her vanished in an instant, replaced instead by the overwhelming guilt that had been building up in him over the course of the night.

All pretenses were off. He utterly despised what he had done, and he no longer had any disguises to hide behind or warped ideals to justify himself with. He realized he had to say something. Apologize, maybe. But what could words possibly do?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

She ignored him. Her ears didn't even twitch. He sighed, then opened the door. As he stepped into the corridor, he imagined her stare on the back of his neck as he shut the door behind him.

...

Grisby was seated at his usual spot behind the counter, thumbing through a crumpled magazine, when Joe walked once more into the lobby. The burly receptionist looked up when he heard the heavy footsteps approaching, and his eyes followed him as he plonked himself on an armchair and sat in silence.

"How was she?" he finally asked.

Joe didn't look up. "I've had better," he replied. "One hell of a looker, and tight, but can't say she was very enthusiastic."

"What do you mean?"

"She tried to kill me when I walked into the room."

Grisby laughed. "But you showed her her place, yeah?"

Joe didn't smile back. "Yeah. I did."

"So, let's discuss payment."

Still not looking up, Joe reached into his pocket and fished out a wallet. Then he walked over to the counter and dropped a couple of hundred dollar bills on it. Grisby leaned forward, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I thought you said she was crap."

"Yeah."

The big man hunched over the counter, propping his chin up with a massive hand. His small, squinty eyes stared inquisitively at Joe.

"What?"

"I know what's happening t'ya."

"Nothing's happening. I'm fine."

"Nah, something's happening," Grisby insisted. His gruff voice took on a serious, lecturing tone. "You're guilty. Now look here, kid. She's an animal. They all are. The only goddamn thing that matters to them is finding someone stronger who can whip them into shape. To show them their place. That's what them trainers do. That's what you gotta do. If you have to whack her up a little to do it, then so be it. Don't beat yourself up over it. That's the way it works."

Joe nodded half-heartedly. Grisby sighed.

"Look, kid, she was your first unbroken morph. It's bound to be different. In fact, y'know what? It's my fault. I shoulda warned you. Keep the cash. Call this a test drive or something."

Joe shook his head. "Nah, you keep it," he mumbled. "It's yours." Then he walked, hunched slightly, towards the exit. Grisby sighed loudly, shoved the bills into his pocket, and continued reading the magazine.

As the cracked glass doors began to slide open, a fleeting thought came to Joe's mind. He turned back to Grisby.

"Hey, Grisby, you said she wasn't broken yet. Does that mean was I her first?"

"Why?"

"Just asking."

Grisby sighed again.

"Look here, kid, you gotta sto-"

"Was I?"

"Whoa, ease up, kid. I-"

"Grisby, please."

The doors had opened, and the powerful winds outside flung stinging raindrops at Joe's cheeks. He barely noticed them. Grisby saw a strange fire in the young man's eyes.

"Before the lab? I have no idea. I mean, I don't know how Ninetales like to pass their time, if you know what I mean. But as a morph, then yeah, I'm pretty sure that was her first time."

Grisby's simple statement hit Joe like a sucker punch to the gut. He felt something physically snap within him. An overwhelming feeling of despair sank into the pit of his stomach and he bent over slightly, bringing a hand to his face.

"Hey, Joe, you alright?"

Without another word, Joe dashed out into the carpark. He stopped in the middle of the asphalt clearing, a soft cry escaping his lips, and for a long while he just stood there, eyes closed and head tilted upwards, towards the howling gales and the icy water that poured down on his shivering body.

Had he looked up then, Joe would have seen the curtains parting from a window three floors above him, and a pair of beautiful crimson eyes watching him silently as he stood in the storm.