Title: Peter’s Ultimate Destiny Part: 1 of 1 Keywords: mc, ws, ab, nosex, diapers Universe: Author: just_lurking Summary: One of Peter’s teachers forces him to listen to some relaxation CDs, which leads to Peter discovering the true nature of the world. This story was done at the request of my master. Dr Davidson stepped out of his office, and into the corridor of Asphodelus High. Closing the door gently, but precisely behind himself as he did so. He stopped at the bench opposite his office, and looked disdainfully at the sorry looking boy with the black eye sitting on it. The boy spoke first, “Where’s my money doc?” “Here.” The doc took out his wallet and counted five crisp hundred dollar notes from it. He handed them to the boy. The boy snatched the money, and examined it closely. “Five hundred’s barely worth it.” He said finally, “Give us another hundred. I wasn’t expecting to get this.” He indicated his swollen eye. “Forget it.” Dr Davidson snorted. “Five hundred’s more than you’ll ever be worth.” The fifteen year old lackey stood up shoulders square, and locked eyes with the older man. It was an attempt at intimidation that would have worked on his peers, but was laughable when he tried it on a man who was still a head’s height taller then him. “What if I tell the principal that you paid me to start a fight with Peter and loose?” He asked, oblivious to how ridiculous he looked. “They’d believe your confession about starting the fight,” Davidson replied smoothly, not bothering to hide his contempt, “but the rest of it would be dismissed as the malicious lies of a out-of-control hoodlum desperate to escape the repercussions of his actions.” The youth’s shoulders dropped a bit, and the doctor could see he had won. “Your word against mine, who do you think they would believe?” He asked, “A fine upstanding pillar of the community like myself, or a young savage like you?” The boy hesitated, and then decided that five hundred was better than nothing. He backed down, and shoved the notes into his pocket. “You’re scum, doc.” He called back over his shoulder as he walked away, “No one respects a bent teacher. Not students. Not staff. No one.” Dr Davidson watched the boy walking down the corridor, and out of sight. Then he spun round, his stony face unperturbed, and walked back into his office. With the payment dealt with, the real work could get under way. Sitting, in his office, in front of his desk was another fifteen year old boy. This boy, unlike his classmate, was petite and timid looking. He was just as roughed up as his compatriot had been. He sat meekly and passively in the chair awaiting the doctor’s return. Dr Davidson walked around his desk, and sat in his chair, facing the boy. “Well, Peter I am surprised to see you here.” The doctor said over laced fingers. “Fighting in the playground. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” “It wasn’t me! Eric started it!” Peter protested. “That’s why he has a swollen eye, and you are relatively unhurt?” The teacher asked. “Don’t lie to me.” “I’m not!” Peter said, indignant, “Eric’s always starting fights. I wouldn’t pick a fight with him. He’s twice my weight. I’d get smashed.” “And yet you didn’t did you, Peter?” The doctor pressed, “In any ‘fair’ fight, Eric wouldn’t have lost to you. That tells me you started it, Peter. You attacked him without provocation didn’t you?” “No! Never! I would never do such a thing!” “Don’t lie to me boy.” Dr Davidson put some steel into his voice, “I know all about you. I know you’re an anti-social misfit. How you live with your aunt because your parents threw you out. They couldn’t put up with you any more, could they? I’ve seen how you keep yourself separate from the other students. You’re a trouble maker if ever I saw one.” Peter was visibly biting his tongue, restraining himself from saying something he would regret. It was obvious that the doctor’s words had hit a nerve, but harsh experience had taught him not to rise to the bait in situations like this. He knew that the doctor would like nothing more than for him to give him an excuse to throw the book at him. Instead he gritted his teeth, and forced himself to relax. “My record is clean sir. You won’t find anything bad in there at all.” “Your record is a testament to how well you make yourself invisible,” The doctor replied, “even to teachers, but you don’t fool me. I know you’re rotten.” “Sir, I—” Peter began, but he was cut off by a gesture from his teacher. “I don’t want to hear it.” He said, “Now, since this is your first ‘reported’ infraction,” Dr Davidson made his feelings about the word ‘reported’ clear, “I’m going to give you a choice.” The doctor reached into a drawer, and removed a folder and a CD. He placed them, side by side, on the desk. “Your records say you’re a smart boy, so I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.” The doctor sneered as he spoke. “You can either take this relaxation CD, and listen to it daily for a week, or we can put a note in your permanent record, and inform your aunt of your violent behaviour.” Peter glared at the overbearing teacher, and tried to make his case one last time, “Sir, I didn’t—”, was as far as he got. “I told you, I’m not interested in your lies!” Dr Davidson thundered, “Pick now, or I’ll choose for you!” Peter swallowed his pride and picked up the CD. The implicit admission of his guilt hurt more than the ‘punishment’ would. He forced himself to be pragmatic. Dr Davidson nodded. They both knew that there had been no other choice. “May I go, sir?” A thoroughly humiliated, and red-faced, Peter said between gritted teeth. “Go,” Dr Davidson waived his dismissal, “and don’t you dare let me see you in my office again!” “I won’t.” Peter promised himself under his breath, as he walked out of the office. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Three o’clock rolled round, and the streets surrounding the school were thick with students. Some were walking home in groups of two or three or four. Others were waiting at the side of the road for their parents to pick them up. Peter pushed his way through the throng. He lived close enough to the school that he was one of the walkers, although he wasn’t part of any group. He wasn’t comfortable in any of them, and none of them were comfortable with him. Everybody knew the reason that his parents disowned him, and nobody wanted to associate with a known queer. Fifteen minutes later he slammed the door of his aunt’s behind him. “I’m back!” He called as he kicked off his school shoes. His aunt poked her head around the kitchen door. “So I heard.” She said with a good-natured smile. “How was school?” “It sucked.” he said honestly. His aunt awww-ed over him, and pulled him into a hug. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.” She said after she released the teen. “Okay.” Peter said as he went to his room. He chucked his backpack down beside his bed, and flopped down on the duvet. The light from the window caught the CD in his now-open backpack. Idly he reached for the shiny circle of plastic, and examined it closely for the first time. The disc was obviously a recordable. For one thing the label was a white sticker, which had been printed on a home computer rather than professionally. The sticker was bare apart from the legend ‘Relaxation Music—Volume 1’ and a website address. Peter shrugged to himself and then loaded the disc into his discman. It informed him that the disc was thirty-eight minutes long. He mulled the disc over in his head. His aunt wouldn’t want him for an hour. More than enough time to play the disc once through. He wasn’t certain how Dr Davidson would be able to tell if he listened to the disc or not, but he had agreed to, and he prided himself on always keeping his word. He popped the headphones into his ears, and tapped the play button. A warm humming noise started somewhere between and behind his ears. Then the music started it was mellow and new age-y in parts, with wind instruments and percussion, but there also seemed to be a muted electric guitar wailing softly in the middle ground. Peter took some deep breaths. The music actually was kind of soothing. He’d been expecting whale songs or something similar, but this was actually pretty good. He felt his eyelids drooping, as his heart rate slowed to the beat set by the snare drums. He felt the familiar noises of his mind, the internal monologue of his life, quieten to be replaced with the music. It held his attention to the exclusion of all else. He stopped fighting his eyes, and let them drift shut. Nothing mattered—nothing at all. In the distant background Peter heard a voice. It sounded like a whisper carried to his ears by a tossing wind. He couldn’t make out the words exactly, and he didn’t have the will to try and decipher them. It was so much better to just lay back and enjoy the music. Thirty-nine minutes later he came to. “Woah.” He breathed to himself, “That was some trip.” He really did feel more relaxed. He ejected the disc, and held it in front of his eyes—stunned and surprised that it worked. He noticed the website address again, and curiosity got the better of him. He powered on his computer, and waited for Windows 98 to finish it’s painfully long boot process. Once it was on he tapped the address on the disc in. Moments later he arrived at the requested site. As far as Peter could make out, the company that made the CDs seemed to be a non-profit funded by some educational board or another. There were a few sample tracks available on their main page, but everything else required a membership. Experimentally he tried the register link, and five minutes later he was a member at no cost. “Peter! Dinner’s ready” Peter heard his aunt call. “Coming!” He shouted back. He clicked on one of the downloads, and went to eat. It would take the track a good half hour to download over his aunt’s antiquated 256k connection. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter knelt, naked, in the emptiness. His head was bowed, his knees were wide apart, his hands were clasped behind his back, and his penis was erect. Around him there were voices—whispering voices—all talking at once. He wasn’t certain what they were saying, but it seemed important. He tried to stand up, and look around for the source of the whispers, but a pair of hands took him by the shoulders and forced him down. Another pair of hands gripped his temples and pushed his head forward so he was once again staring at his erection. The hands were firm, but gentle, and Peter compliantly allowed them to position him. A third pair of hands wrapped themselves around his neck. They just brushed his skin. Peter felt no fear. The thumbs met at the top of his spine. Slowly the fingers of the hands curled, until they hovered a millimetre apart. Peter drew a breath. The fingers touched, a click noise echoed through his head, and a sense of complete tranquillity enveloped him. He felt his bladder release, and he watched as a stream of urine jetted out from his still hard cock. Then he woke. He patted his sheets around his crotch to make sure they were dry. They were. He gave a thank-you glance to the bottle of pills that sat on his bed-side. When he had gone to the doctors they had been unable to determine the cause of his bed wetting, apart from the nebulous, catch-all diagnosis of stress, but the anti-diuretics they had prescribe him worked never the less. Of course, Peter mulled, it wasn’t as if his life hadn’t been stressful enough. He tried listening to his relaxation CDs. He always felt less upset about the bed wetting after listening to them, but they didn’t seem to alleviate the underlying cause. In a way, he mused, it was fortunate that he discovered the CDs when he did, because his stress-related wetting had started not too long after. The dreams had started about the same time. He hadn’t told the doctor about those. He hadn’t even told his aunt about the reoccurring dreams. They were too personal. Every night they were the same. They varied only in insignificant details—and clarity. They were becoming clearer as the nights went on. When he had first started having the dream it had been nebulous—insubstantial. Now the dreams felt as real as waking life. He dismissed the thought with a shake of the head. It was only natural that the dreams would be stronger, today was a very important day—he didn’t want to mess it up. He climbed out of bed, and threw on the clothes he had laid out the night before. Then he headed into the kitchen where his aunt was already frying up breakfast. “Hey you,” his aunt greeted him, “looking smart.” Peter looked down at the suit he had picked out for the day, and smiled, “Thanks.” He hugged her from behind, “What’s for breakfast?” “Bacon, egg, french toast and beans.” Was the cheery reply. “Got to keep your energy up, graduation day is a big day.” “Great, I can get my diploma in the morning and a heart attack in the afternoon.” Peter jested. “Eat up silly, and try not to get any down your shirt.” The maternal reply, touched a sore spot in Peter’s heart. “I wish they would—” Peter cut himself off mid-sentence. “Oh honey.” His aunt consoled him with a hug, “They’ll come round one day, they just need a little time.” There was no need to elaborate on who ‘they’ were. “It’s been years,” Peter complained, “I’ve done high school and college without them. How much more time do they need? I’m eighteen for christsakes.” “I know honey,” his aunt sighed, “just try not to let it ruin your big day, okay?” “I’ll try.” Peter promised, and tried to dismiss the matter from his mind as he turned his attention to breakfast. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter walked off of college grounds, his head held high, for what he expected would be the last time. Beneath his arm he clutched an brown, legal envelope which held his diploma. At his ear he held a mobile phone. “Yeah,” he said to the person on the other side of the phone, “it feels great.” There was a pause as the boy listened. “There wasn’t much ceremony: a speech, a presentation, some food and then out.” Another gap. “Yeah, that would have been nice, I’ll see you when I get home.” Peter flipped his phone closed, terminating the call. He felt on top of the world. He had overcome more than most of his classmates and still beaten the odds. He felt a tap at his shoulder. He spun around to see a heavy looking man in a business suit standing next to him. “Excuse me,” the man said, “Does the phrase: ‘The oneiroi have breached the gates of your mind, and we shall collect the ivory shards’ mean anything to you?” Peter’s breath caught in his chest. The nonsensical words did mean something to him. He looked the intimidating man in the eyes, and his mouth began to form words without his consent. “Yes master, I obey.” It was just four words, but they scared Peter more than anything he had ever heard in his life. “Good. I knew you were the one.” The man grunted. Peter started panicking. Seeing this the man wagged his finger. “No, no, no.” He said, “No shouting. You will speak at a normal volume, and only to acknowledge orders. Is that understood?” “Yes master.” Peter said, horror written across his face. “Good” The man said dismissively, “Now go sit in the back of the van.” Peter jumped to carry out his instructions, only pausing to say, “Yes master.” Inside the van were another boy and a girl, both about the same age as him. There were two benches running either side of the small space. Peter picked the nearest and sat down on it. The man slammed the doors shut behind him, and a minute later the van was moving. Peter looked at his fellow captives. They both seemed to be in the same state as him: scared, entranced and—worryingly—aroused. The boy’s jeans were tented, and the girls nipples were clearly visible through her top. Peter was shocked when he noticed the throbbing between his legs, he had been so afraid that he hadn’t noticed his arousal at first. The three fear-and-lust-filled adolescent’s eyed each other up hungrily, even as they silently panicked. The teens’ hearts were beating hard and fast. Their breathing was deep and heavy. The van stopped twice to pick up two more passengers—a boy and a girl. Both were a similar age and in a similar state to the other occupants. Peter found something strangely erotic and compelling about about his entranced companions. Despite their clothing, they were exposed to him in a way that even the naked models in his porn stash were not. All five were unable to move, and powerless to hide themselves or their feelings from each other’s inspection. Peter couldn’t help but feel that his companions powerlessness was ‘right’. Somehow even his own powerlessness was ‘right’—part of the natural order of universe somehow. His cock jumped in his pants, as his mind rebelled at the thought. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Their final destination turned out to be a fairly nondescript courtyard at the base of a tower block. They were ordered out of the van, and into the building. They did so with a chorus of yes-master’s. They were led a short way into the structure, and into individual cells. Peter’s cell, which he assumed was similar to the others, was a bare concrete room with a small window at one end, and a single heavy door at the other. Shelves and cupboards lined the walls at random heights and intervals. They were packed haphazardly with all sorts of equipment Peter couldn’t identify. The centre of the room was dominated by a single metal chair. The chair had padded straps and buckles hanging off it. The restraints were obviously meant for its less willing occupants. The right arm rest was unusual. Instead of being in the typical position it was raised so that the occupant’s arm would be held out. The man shoved Peter into the room. “Shut up, strip down, sit in the chair, and await further instructions.” Then he was left alone. Peter’s body began to undress itself without any input for him. It terrified him. He folded up his cloths and placed them at the foot of the chair. Then, still erect, he sat down on the cold metal, staring straight ahead and waited passively. Only his face still obeyed him and displayed his true feelings. A thin, forty-ish looking man, with receding hair, a goatee, and a leather collar about his neck, walked in a few minutes later. He looked Peter over and ‘hrumph’-ed to himself. In his hands he carried a bundle, which he laid out on one of the counters. “Put’chur arm on the rest boy,” the man drawled in a cigarette-ravaged voice, “then do up the straps good ’n tight.” Peter’s right arm had smartly positioned itself on the arm rest, and his left hand moved to close the restraints around it. The man turned to face Peter. Peter, who had thought he was as scared as it was possible for a person to be, felt another wave of dread grip at his heart. In the man’s hand was a tattoo iron. “Hold still boy.” The man ordered, “And bite down on this.” He slipped a thick strip of leather into Peter’s mouth which obediently closed around it. Then he started the iron. Peter had never felt pain like this before. He screamed around the strap in his mouth. He had tried, mostly successfully, to avoid physical pain throughout school and college—he felt had suffered enough mental anguish as it was. He knew intellectually that it wasn’t ‘that’ painful, that many people willingly chose to get a tattoo, but he was unused to pain of any sort, and the fact that it was done against his will only made the needle bite sharper. The man worked quickly and methodically, oblivious to, or unmoved by, Peter’s screaming. A few near-eternal minutes later the ordeal was over. Peter heard the noise of the iron die away, and he felt the strap being pulled from his maw. His arm still hurt—especially around his shoulder. He tried to blink away the tears from his puffy eyes as he gulped in lungfuls of cold, soothing air. “Well, Peter. Long time no see.” A hauntingly familiar voice mocked the captive boy, “Congratulations on graduating. I heard you were in the top five of your year.” Peter could have sworn his heart stopped for just an instant. He redoubled his efforts to clear his eyes, and looked towards the source the voice. Dr Davidson, his most hated secondary school teacher, had entered the room sometime during Peter’s tattooing, and was now standing next to him, smiling. “Thank you Adam,” Dr Davidson said to the tattooist, “that will be all for this one. You can get started on the next one. I’ll join you shortly.” The tattooist nodded curtly and left. “I must admit I was surprised that you did as well as you did.” Dr Davidson walked around the chair, ”You’re a born failure if ever I met one. Still congratulations are in order.” He conceded, “I expect you would like to know what is going on?” He waited a few seconds for a reply before realising Peter’s difficulty. “Ah, of course. You may now move your head to answer yes and no. No speaking otherwise. Do you understand?” Against his will Peter’s head nodded. “Good,” the doctor laughed at Peter’s discomfort, “so do you want to know why we’ve brought you here, and why you’re now sporting that fetching barcode tattoo?” Again Peter’s head disobeyed his instructions to stay still and dipped in the affirmative. “It’s simple enough,” Dr Davidson stifled a laugh, “you’re to be a slave. You will serve your master, now and for the rest of your life. Technically you were born a slave, as were your family, your few friends and over ninety-eight percent of the worlds population.” He paused abruptly, “But you don’t understand a word I’m saying do you?” A shake in the negative confirmed the doctor’s suspicion. “You see, in this world there are two classes.” Dr Davidson began in the ‘lecturing’ voice that most teacher’s possess, “The super rich, or free men, and their slaves, that is to say everybody else including you. “The free men own everything. Every dollar. Every cent. Every square inch of the land and sea. Every man, woman, child and animal on the face of this globe. Everything. Most of it directly, some of it indirectly. The house in which you lived, the clothes that you wear, the aunt that you loved, even you yourself, all belonged, indirectly, to somebody else.” Peter screamed a single unintelligible denial at the doctor. Dr Davidson seemed genuinely shocked, “My, my, that must have been heartfelt to get by all your conditioning. Rest assured we won’t be allowing you any more outbreaks like that after today.” He regathered his composure, “You might be wondering why, if they own everything, they bother with this charade? “It’s simple.” He answered his own question, “They need people to turn their raw materials into creature comforts for their mansions, to keep the blockbusters running on their home cinemas, to keep their wealth growing in the banks. They need people to run the mines, the factories, the film studios. They need slaves like you to keep the farms running so that they can hold banquets in honour of their own magnificence. “Now do you understand the true nature of the world?” Dr Davidson was leaning in so close to Peter that he could feel the doctor’s breath on his face. Hot tears ran down Peter’s cheeks. He nodded violently—anything to stop the doctor from speaking those terrible words. “Oh, but you don’t.” His captor mocked, “You think you do, but you don’t. Not yet. “You see the genius of the free men’s system is the way it suppresses slave revolts. The free men have always known that they are out numbered ninety-nine to one. Any rebellion at all would be swift and disastrous, but they also knew that the best way to prevent their slaves from breaking their chains and rising up, was to make sure that their slaves didn’t know about those chains in the first place. “So they let you have a few scrapings from their tables. On ‘loan’ you understand, and what’s a small percentage of your wealth when you are as super rich as they are? They have so much that if they lived a thousand years they still couldn’t enjoy all of it.” The doctor paused, and laughed out loud, “But that’s all big and impersonal. I’m sure you’re much more interested in why you’re here.” He ran a hand over Peter’s cheek, almost lovingly, “Well, one of the many goods the free men have use for is slaves. Of course they come from the population at large. Sometimes they need people like me. Overseers, recruiters, people to manage the heard. We look after the livestock on behalf of the masters. “Other times they want people like you. You are going to be the entertainment for a particular free man. One who enjoys incontinent, diapered slave boys. Oh, don’t look like that, you’re actually very lucky. Your new master has a reputation for being a bit soft on his slaves. You’ll lead a life of relative comfort. One of the girls in rooms opposite is going to a cannibal’s larder. I doubt she’ll last to the end of the month.” “Anyway,” Dr Davidson clapped his hands together cheerfully, “Now you know the true nature of the world. And I do so enjoy watching your faces drop as I explain it to you. It’s time to finish what we started with the relaxation CDs.” Peter’s face twisted in a new variety of shock and horror. Up until that moment he hadn’t considered the connection between the relaxation music he listened to daily, and the man who had introduced him to it. He cursed himself for being such a fool. “Don’t look so shocked.” Dr Davidson said as he wheeled over a television, “We gave you urinary incontinence at the same time we placed those triggers in your head.” He loosened the strap around Peter’s arm, slipped a pair of headphones over his ears, and tapped the play button on the television. “Oh by the way,” he said as he leaned back against one of the counters, “how long has it been since you took one of those little pills of yours? Almost half a day?” Peter shot Dr Davidson a look of disgust, fear, hatred and sorrow. Then the earphones came alive with the warm hum that was so familiar to him. He tried to fight the tiredness that was overcoming him, and the blankness that threatened to envelope his thoughts. The screen flickered to life, and pictures began to flicker across it almost faster than the eye could follow. A full body photo of a naked hunk, was replaced by a scene of a slave and his master, which gave way to a picture of a diaper. On and on the pictures went, and Peter kept fighting against the calm. He tried to keep his internal voice ‘alive’, because he knew once that was silenced all hope was lost. He could feel his thoughts slowing. A picture of a collared boy sucking a cock flashed up. He realised his heart rate had synced up with the music. An image of a slave being disciplined filled the screen. He felt his will to fight melting away. A picture of a boy kneeling in blissful obedience popped up. “Stop resisting boy.” Dr Davidson whispered in his ear, “Let it in. Let it change you. That’s an order.” Peter felt the music wash away his thoughts. The very last words to echo around the insides of his mind were ‘yes master’. Then there was only the music. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter awoke in the chair. The screen was blank, and the headphones had been removed. His chin was caked with dried saliva. Dr Davidson was still in the room. He had loosened his tie, and undone the top button of his shirt in the time Peter had been under. “Welcome back boy.” He said sardonically, “I trust you had a pleasant trip. You may now speak, although only when spoken to.” “Thank you master.” Peter was not surprised that his voice was working without his consent, but he was surprised to realise that he actually meant the words. He was even more surprised, when without any warning, his bladder decided to empty itself over his naked form. A steady flow of warm urine sprayed over his belly, pooled in his lap, trickled down his thighs and ran gently over the seat of the stainless steel chair in rivulets. The soft ticking noise as the drips fell against the concrete floor echoed loudly in Peter’s ear, otherwise he was unaffected—continuing to stare straight ahead as he soaked his torso. A few short seconds—and a bladder’s worth of urine—later the flow slowed and died. “I see that the pills have worn off.” Dr Davidson said mockingly, “What have you done to yourself?” The question was rhetorical, but boy answered anyway, “I’ve wet myself master.” He said in a calm voice, as indifferent as if he had been commenting on the colour of the sky, or the time of day. Dr Davidson ignored the answer. Instead he pulled out a towel and an adult nappy from the shelves, “You’ll need these now boy.” He walked over to the chair, and ordered Peter to his feet. “Yes master.” Peter jumped smartly to attention in front of the chair. The doctor wiped down the boy and the chair, then he laid out the nappy on the seat. “Sit.” He commanded. One yes-master later Peter was sitting in the open nappy. “There we are.” Dr Davidson said as he did up the tapes, “So boy are you ready to go home, and pack up your life in preparation for serving your master?” “Yes master,” Peter responded, “but what should I tell my aunt?” “Tell her you’ve been recruited for a job with housing benefits.” Dr Davidson smiled maliciously. “After all, that’s not entirely a lie is it?” “No master.” Peter said obediently. “You have a week to cut any ties to your old life.” Dr Davidson continued in a business-like fashion, “Then you will return here to be collared and shipped to your master. Is that understood boy?” “Yes master…”