Your owner is a stout, elephantine dwarf, all gray, wrinkly skin like a living CRBN suit. He’d stand at exactly your waist height, if you weren’t being bent over the conference table and fucked by an alien werewolf. He sees--well, he echolocates--with two bulbous receiving organs on his face more analogous to ears than eyes, though they do look a whole lot like huge compound eyes as he gazed down his lack of a nose at you. He goes naked, save for a breathing mask that pressurizes his air closer to his native five bars of pressure. He doesn’t seem to have a cock or any other sexual characteristics, but he answers to he/him pronouns. His name is a long motif in his people’s fluting tongue, fading from merely high pitched to ultrasonic. You call him Wololo in what little privacy was afforded your primitive, sopping mammalian brain, and his race the Greys. He tolerates that. He could tolerate a lot, from Pembugo Incorporated’s merchandise.

Apparently you’ve found his limit. He sits in his raised dais at the head of the conference table, observing impassively as his enforcer holds you down and pushs into you. Wololo didn’t fuck his girls. He had other people for that.

People like his enforcer. Humans were the most sexually driven primates in the known galaxy, barely sentient enough to think beyond the next fuck, but Pikewolf males, as you were finding out, were decent runner-ups. Ghrazelkrof had shoved you down in one smooth, practiced motion, thoughtfully cushioning your head with his forepaw, then pushed his full girth in. He fills you, painfully, despite all that Pembugo Incorporated’s best erotoaugmentations could do, and he fucks like a machine, pistoning constantly and powerfully, pounding your primitive, sopping mammalian brain in wave on wave of sensory overload.

“I just don’t know what to do with you,” Wololo finally grumbles in Galactic Standard. Well, he squeaks, anyway. You have to strain your eyes upwards to meet his gaze. Your primitive, sopping mammalian brain mewls and quivers under his commanding gaze, and you spare a moment to wonder sardonically how your trainers thought all this phrasing was supposed to come off for anyone that hadn’t undergone Pembugo Incorporated’s Extended Re-Education Course for the Gainful Employment of Primitive Sapients.

“I pay your room and board, your medical expenses—I pay your oxygen tax, I handle all your appointments. Retirement—you’re immortal, you know. How many humans can say that?” He slowly shakes his head in imitation of the human gesture. “I just don’t know what more I can do for you.”

You hold back a grunt that would have been taken as agreement. Your thoughts are all there, or at least the general shapes you could hold while your primitive, sopping mammalian brain savors being pounded mercilessly into the table, made prostrate and submissive to a man three feet shorter than you. You aren’t to speak, anyway. You didn’t have permission.

“I could send you back, you know,” he muses. “Pembugo does reconditioning and resale in-house. I hear human pets are all the rage on Belenthia this cycle. Would you like that? Morning Herald’s said nothing but good things about you.”

Your eyes cross as a ghost of the Herald of the Morning’s superior mind strokes the folds of your primitive, sopping mammalian brain. She’d been gentle, and that was worse than anything Wololo could do to you, because you knew her restraint was the only reason you were still you. Wololo tolerates what you think of him because he couldn’t get at what you thought of him without killing you. Morning Herald had slipped into your primitive, sopping mammalian brain like a finger in your cunny and twisted your abortive panic into abject adoration and acceptance. Morning Herald wouldn’t need to tolerate what you thought in what little privacy afforded your primitive, sopping mammalian brain. She could make you walk erotic fever dreams forever, bend your mind into shapes ever more pleasing to her eye, and you can only pray it wasn’t something native to your primitive, sopping mammalian brain that wrings out another long, squirming orgasm at the thought.

“Would you like that?” Wololo had leaned in as you shuddered. “They don’t usually allow third-party resale, but I could pull a few strings...”

“N—” You wheeze as Ghrazelkrof chooses that moment to thrust again, driving the word from your throat. “No!” you manage.

Wololo whistles. “Then I really do not see what you are trying to accomplish here.”

“Free—” Ghrazelkrof pistons the word out of your throat again. “Choice. Choices. To chose—”

“Freedom? Choice?” Wololo cocks his head. “You are being copulated with by a random sentient, human. You did not consent to it. You plainly do not want it. Yet you do not resist in any way. You do not say no, or otherwise signal your nonconsent. You do not struggle, except to increase your own pleasure. There is not even a token effort.” He pitchs his voice down as far as it would go in the closest thing to an authoritative tone you’ve ever heard a Grey manage. “You have no will to preserve your health and safety, or to resist the command of another. No such being has any business managing their own finances, their insurance, their housing. Their employment. Their future.”

And who’s fault is that, rises the voice in what little privacy was afforded your primitive, sopping mammalian brain. It doesn’t reach your tongue. You aren’t to speak. You didn’t have permission.

“You are in no state to continue negotiations at this time.” He judges. You can’t argue otherwise, even if you could. “Next day cycle, twelve-thousand six hundred day-fractions.” He hops down from his dais and waddles for the door. “Clean up when you’re done,” he adds.

“You got it, boss.” Ghrazelkrof rumbles.

The door seals shut.

Ghrazelkrof chuffs. “Packless.” Then suddenly he pulled out entirely, and you gasp in relief so hard it comes out as a whine. “So...I can’t tell if you--wossisname--or-gazmed or not.”

“Yeah…” you mumble.

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did.”

“Huh? Really.” He sniffs at your butt. “Hrrrgh. That was weak. I’mma try the other hole—and squeal this time, you hear?”

You don’t get up. Your primitive, sopping mammalian brain savors being manhandled, pressed back into the table as Ghrazelkrof positions himself and then, slick with your arousal, slips smoothly into your asshole.