Penelope adjusted her glasses as she stared at Professor Harrison’s lecture slides. At 22, the Harvard postgraduate student was nothing remarkable to look at—mousy brown hair tied in a messy bun, average features hidden behind thick lenses that corrected her terrible eyesight. But her mind was sharp, and in Professor Harrison’s advanced philosophy class, she shone.

Professor Harrison, at 55, was the opposite of unremarkable. Despite his age, he maintained a physique that turned heads—broad shoulders, toned arms that strained against his dress shirts, and an aura of confidence that made both students and faculty take notice. His salt-and-pepper hair and penetrating eyes had earned him a reputation as the university’s most attractive professor.

Penelope had admired him from afar for months, but everything changed when he called her to his office to discuss her thesis.

“Your analysis of Nietzsche is exceptional, Penelope,” he said, leaning back in his leather chair. “You have a unique perspective.”

Penelope blushed, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Call me Robert outside of class,” he said with a smile that made her heart flutter. “I’d like to discuss your work further over dinner.”

That dinner marked the beginning of their secret relationship. Robert was experienced, dominant, and introduced Penelope to a world of pleasure she’d never imagined. When he asked her to save his number as “classroom3Awhore,” she didn’t hesitate.

“He’s just playing,” she told herself, even as a thrill ran through her at the degradation.

Their encounters grew more intense. Robert introduced her to bondage, spanking, and humiliation play. Penelope discovered she loved surrendering control to him. The night he took her virginity was both painful and exhilarating.

“You belong to me now,” he whispered afterward, and she believed it completely.

As graduation approached, Penelope grew desperate.

“Please don’t end this,” she begged after their last encounter in his office. “I’ll do anything.”

Robert studied her for a long moment. “Anything?”

“Anything,” she confirmed without hesitation.

He smiled slowly. “I have an arrangement in mind. But it requires complete surrender.”

Penelope nodded eagerly. “I’m yours.”

The transformation began the day after graduation. Robert gave her new rules for her life: 1. Stay naked at home except for pet accessories 2. Never lock your door 3. Greet all visitors by groveling and begging for their cum 4. Wear a collar at all times 5. Choose a tail plug daily from your collection The first week was terrifying. Penelope followed the rules, staying naked in her apartment except for a cat ear headband, leather collar, and a fox tail plug that made her walk awkwardly. She jumped at every sound, expecting visitors who never came.

Robert visited on the third day. “Good girl,” he said, patting her head. “You’re learning.”

He set up cameras throughout her apartment. “We’re going to share your journey with others,” he explained. “Your transformation will be livestreamed.”

The first stranger arrived a week later—a maintenance worker who’d noticed her unlocked door. Penelope’s heart pounded as she dropped to her knees, as instructed.

“Please,” she begged, face pressed to the floor. “Please use me. I need your cum.”

The man laughed, but didn’t hesitate. The encounter was rough and degrading, exactly as Robert had ordered when he watched via camera later that night.

“Very good,” he praised during their video call. “You’re becoming an excellent pet.”

Robert began selling access to her livestream. Viewers paid to watch her daily life, her chores, and her encounters with strangers. The money funded Robert’s lifestyle while Penelope remained in her pet role.

After six months, Robert grew bored. “It’s time to end this,” he announced during one of his visits.

Penelope panicked. “Please don’t leave me! I’ll kill myself if you do!”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “That’s dramatic. But I’ll give you one chance to prove your devotion. There’s a famous suicide spot nearby—the bridge on Miller Avenue. Save ten men who would otherwise jump by bringing them here and serving them completely. Do that, and I’ll consider keeping you.”

Desperate, Penelope agreed. She began spending her days near the bridge, wearing her old glasses and conservative clothes, watching for troubled men.

The first appeared three days later—a young man in a business suit, staring at the rushing water below.

“Please don’t,” she approached softly. “I can help. Come home with me.”

He hesitated, then followed her back to the apartment. When she revealed her pet attire, his shock turned to predatory interest.

“You’re serious?” he asked, eyeing her naked form.

Penelope nodded, dropping to her knees. “Use me however you want.”

His preferences were extreme. He made her drink his piss directly from his cock, then fucked her senseless before urinating on her face and hair. He stayed for a week, treating her as nothing more than a fuckdoll and toilet.

Each new man brought different humiliations. The second enjoyed spanking her until she cried, then fucking her throat until she vomited. The third, a married man, made her call his wife while he penetrated her, describing every detail. The fourth brought toys—clamps, gags, and massive dildos that stretched her to her limits.

Before each encounter, Penelope led them to her tail plug closet—over 200 varieties arranged neatly. “Choose what I’ll be,” she offered. “Cat, dog, fox, rabbit ... whatever you desire.”

Some chose cat ears and a tail plug with a bell that jingled with each thrust. Others preferred puppy ears and a butt plug tail that wagged absurdly. One selected rabbit ears and a fluffy tail plug before making her hop around the room.

All encounters were livestreamed. Her fans loved watching her degradation, commenting on how her eyes grew more vacant with each humiliation. Her brain, they noted, was melting from the constant abuse.

After saving nine men, Penelope grew desperate. The tenth was elusive until she spotted him—an older man, well-dressed, standing dangerously close to the edge.

“Please,” she begged. “Let me help you.”

He followed her home in silence. When she revealed herself, his expression didn’t change.

“Turn around,” he ordered, selecting a dog tail plug from her collection. “On your hands and knees.”

He used her methodically, no emotion, just mechanical thrusting in all her holes. When finished, he cleaned himself and left without a word.

Peneline had saved ten men. She called Robert immediately.

“I did it,” she said breathlessly. “I saved ten men.”

“Excellent,” he replied. “One final test.”

The next day, while cleaning her apartment in her pet attire—a fox today, with matching ears and tail plug—she heard the door open. Her heart stopped when she recognized her brother’s voice.

“Penelope? Are you here? I was worried...”

She froze, conflict warring within her. The rules were clear—greet all visitors by begging. But this was her brother.

“Please,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “Please use me. I need your cum.”

Marcus stared, shock turning to something darker. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I’m a pet,” she explained, voice trembling. “This is my purpose now.”

He approached slowly, then grabbed her hair. “If that’s what you want...”

The incest shattered something inside Penelope. Marcus stayed for three days, sharing her with his friends who treated her worse than any stranger. When he finally left, she felt nothing but emptiness.

Robert arrived the next morning with a leash. “You passed,” he said, clipping it to her collar. “Time to come home.”

He renamed her “Whisper” and moved her into his house, bringing all her tail plug sets. He sold her apartment and all other belongings.

“Welcome to your new life,” he said, leading her to a small room with nothing but a pet bed on the floor. “You’ll relive your humiliations regularly for my amusement.”

The first night, he invited friends over to recreate her encounters with the ten men she’d saved. Each took turns using her as she’d been used before, while Robert watched with approval.

Weeks passed, then months. Penelope—now Whisper—learned her new role completely. She spoke only when spoken to, crawled unless instructed to walk, and accepted any degradation without protest.

One evening, Robert hosted a party. Whisper served drinks naked except for puppy ears and a tail plug, accepting gropes and crude comments without reaction.

As the night progressed, Robert announced, “My pet has a special talent. She can take anything.”

The guests tested this claim—bottles, fists, multiple partners at once. Whisper endured it all, her expression blank.

By dawn, she lay exhausted and covered in fluids on the floor. Robert nudged her with his foot.

“Good girl,” he said, then turned to his guests. “Anyone want to adopt a pet? I’m growing bored of this one.”

Whisper’s eyes widened slightly. She had given everything to be his pet, and now she was nothing more than a disposable toy.

“Please,” she begged, voice hoarse. “Don’t get rid of me. I’ll be better.”

Robert laughed. “You’re exactly where you belong, Whisper. Completely broken and utterly dependent. That’s the fate of all good pets.”

As the guests discussed taking her home, Whisper realized this was her final humiliation—not just being used, but being passed along like an object, her humanity erased completely.

She closed her eyes, accepting her fate. This was what she had begged for, after all.

The bidding was quick and efficient, as if they were purchasing a piece of art, not a human life.

A portly man named Mr. Cooper, a collector of rare and grotesque things, won the auction for Whisper. Robert, with a final, dismissive pat on her head, oversaw her packaging.

They found a large, wooden crate, the kind used for shipping expensive sculptures. Inside, they lined the bottom with a thin mattress. Whisper was forced to her hands and knees. “Open up, pet,” Robert commanded, shoving a thick, ribbed dildo into her mouth and strapping it around her head. Another, even larger one, was lubricated and forced deep into her ass, secured with a leather harness that prevented any expulsion. A third, vibrating one was locked into her pussy, its remote taped to the outside of the box. The lid was closed, plunging her into darkness, the only sounds her muffled whimpers and the hum of the vibrator. She was cargo, shipped to multiple rich people who used her as a study for their behavioural experiments and grotesque sexual releases.

Her final destination was the most pathetic of all. She was shipped in a cardboard box, like an unwanted item, to the home of Robert’s quiet, unassuming gardener, a man named Elias who had simply watched the parties with a silent, unnerving intensity. His home was a small, cluttered cottage on the edge of Robert’s property. It smelled of damp earth and fertilizer.

Elias didn’t speak. He simply unpacked her from the box, removed her bindings, and pointed to a dog bed in the corner. For weeks, he did nothing but ignore her. He would come and go, tend to his plants, and watch television, treating her as if she were part of the furniture. The silence was worse than any pain. Whisper grew desperate for any form of interaction, any acknowledgement of her existence. She began to actively seek his attention, crawling to him and pressing her head against his leg, whining softly.

One evening, he finally acknowledged her. He led her not to his bed, but to his large, enclosed porch where he kept dozens of prize-winning exotic flowers. He pointed to a wilted rose. The message was clear. He began using her as his living fertilizer. After he used her body, he would make her squat over his prized plants, his cum dripping from her onto the soil. He would then praise the flowers, never her. Her ultimate purpose, she realized with a shattering sense of finality, was not even to be a fucktoy, but to be a nutrient for something beautiful, something that would be admired and loved in a way she never would be again. Whisper, the former Harvard postgraduate, had finally found her place in the world: as silent, unseen, and disposable as dirt.

Her life as Elias’s living fertilizer became a monotonous, silent hell. The seasons turned, and Whisper’s world shrank to the porch, the dog bed, and the scent of soil. Her body, once soft, grew lean and corded from constant crawling. Her mind, once sharp, grew foggy and dull, her thoughts simplified to immediate needs: food, water, and the rare, fleeting touch of her owner. The glasses she once needed were a forgotten memory, her world a permanent, impressionistic blur of shapes and colors, recognized more by scent and shadow than by sight.

One autumn afternoon, a familiar, terrifying scent cut through the earthy smell of the porch: Robert’s cologne, sharp and expensive. He stood on the porch steps, a tall, imposing figure. Elias stood beside him, nodding deferentially.

“Her performance has been ... adequate,” Robert said, his voice casual as if discussing a tool. “But the annual alumni gala is approaching. I require a centerpiece for the ‘Cabinet of Curiosities’ display. Something truly unique.”

Whisper didn’t understand the words, but she understood the tone. She began to tremble.

Robert stepped forward and clipped a leash to her collar. “Come, pet. It’s time for your public debut.”

The gala was held in Harvard’s grand museum hall, a place of soaring ceilings and marble floors where Whisper had once dreamed of presenting her own thesis. Now, she was the exhibit. Robert led her to a raised, circular platform in the center of the hall. On it was a single, velvet-covered pedestal, like one for a priceless statue.

“Mount,” Robert commanded.

Whisper, trembling with humiliation, crawled onto the pedestal and positioned herself on all fours. Robert then produced the final, most degrading accessory: a beautifully crafted, antique-looking birdcage, just large enough to fit over her. He lowered it over her, the bars locking into the floor with a definitive click. A small plaque on the front of the pedestal read: “Homo Serviens: The Broken Scholar. Formerly of this institution.”

For the next six hours, she was a living statue. The elite of Harvard—professors, donors, alumni—sipped champagne and circled her cage. They spoke about her as if she weren’t there.

“Fascinating transformation,” said a woman whose blurry shape Whisper recognized as the Dean of Students. “I remember her thesis. Quite brilliant, but terribly repressed. This seems a much more suitable outlet.”

“A bit plain, isn’t she?” a man in a tuxedo commented, tapping the cage. “I expected more flair for the price.”

The ultimate humiliation came when a group of her former classmates, dressed in elegant gowns, gathered around her. She recognized their voices, their laughter.