"C'mon, Poopy. Let's go potty."
The leather was so tight, it made ivory lines on his face and every movement was slowly forming blisters. Even if he wanted to sigh in defiance, his face was too tired to breathe heavily enough.
He hid his teary eyes from her line of view. What kind of name was "poop"? It was obvious lyrics and insult and something she found cute. But he couldn't help but think, did she even remember his real name? The name he was born with, his citizens identity?
No. He couldn't think this things. Barry was already miserable and even severely physically injured. It didn't seem as if things could get worse and he wouldn't let himself test that.
The door opened. His leash was tugged as an instruction to follow her out of the room.
His knees grinding on the cracked tile, the bones of his hands pressing into cold lumps and dents. The dried urine and sweat was like fire when his skin was stretched with each step. As Barry was lagging at Harley's feet.
Harley wrapped his leash firmer around her hand, tugging him closer to her. He complied, because he really had no choice.
The hallway ahead was long and broad, with at least two turns. The floor reeked like feces, and some brown stains served evident. Handprints and brown smeared on the doors. And especially the pile of mashed stool in the middle of the hallway, still wet and soft, and so warm that he could feel it on his face. It made Barry want to break down crying right then and there. Out of everything he's been through, for some reason, this was too much too soon. Possibly because it all became undeniably real and tangible once they left that room.
And that's what he did. He began crying. His breaths rattled around inside his muzzle. Tears seeped inside his blisters, making the leather cold and sticky. His collar buckle and muzzle lock jingling around, begging for mercy.
It's like Harley couldn't hear the hysterical sobbing due to the illusion from the muzzle. "Let's find us a spot."
Barry tried to not look at the fresh shit because it would only make things worse. It was becoming increasingly difficult when he counted more fresh piles scattered everywhere. His back running cold, his nipples frozen solid, he wasn't sure whether he should cower or attempt to flee.
"Here's a good poop spot!" Harl chimed, tugging his leash towards a dry puddle of urine. Somewhere with no feces, except some dried smear, so his feet wouldn't get all filthy. "Oh geez, people really need to clean up after themselves."
His eyes widened. Then closed in relief when she pulled a plastic bag from her pocket. For a moment, he was struggling to accept the mere idea of what it would be like to eat his poop.