TJ's Enslavement

	TJ sat in the courtroom, wearing a suit and tie. He figured that he'd best make a good impression on the judge, as what would happen in the next half-hour would alter the course of his life. TJ nervously sweated, despite the chill in the courtroom, the AC system was working at peak capacity, as it was a hot July day.
	The bailiff called the court to order, and TJ stood as a portulent cat dressed in a black robe entered--Judge Samuel Reinhold. The bailiff announced the judge, who then gave permission for all to sit. As TJ took his seat, he felt the metal collar around his neck, reminding him of his status, and the reason why he was appearing in court today.
	"Case number: SC-578B, to examine the contract that Slave V-452575 entered into voluntarily with one Theodore Kingsford shall be here today. Are both parties present?"
	Both TJ and a younger fox stated to the affirmative. The judge continued, "V-452575, you are here on your own free will, and your master has not threatened or coerced you in anyway. Do you testify to this fact? Remember that you were sworn under oath just this morning."
	TJ stood up, "Yes, Your Honor. My master has not threatened me in anyway. My contract as a slave is almost expired, Master Ted has given me the kindness of an offer for indefinite servitude." TJ swallowed. If the judge didn't allow his slavery to become permanent, he didn't know what he would do--ex-slave are not allowed contact with former masters.
	It seemed like forever while TJ waited for the judge to respond. He remembered standing in front of the same towering bench, but in front of a different judge just three short years ago, the day he entered into voluntary slavery. He had to assure the judge that he knew the consequences of this, both immediate and lifelong--
	There are three types of slaves, and each one loses different freedoms. There's involuntary slaves--those who are sentenced to slavery as a punishment, usually repeat offenders for crimes such as theft, or distribution of narcotics. Most become slaves for life, but a few are freed by their owners after a number of years. Then there's the two classes of voluntary slaves--permanent, which TJ was trying to become, and temporary, which technically is more of an indentured servant than a true slave. 
	Most volunteer slaves sign their contract in order to reduce crippling debt--they agree to a contract of three, five, or ten years, and are sold at auction. The auction house pays off the debt with the proceeds, and keeps the remaining profit. It's a very lucrative business and there's little overhead. The slaves, if they have a career and an education, are usually bought by a corporation, which then reaps the benefits of almost-free labor, only having to pay for food and housing. 
	If the slave is uneducated, then they are put to either heavy labor, or household services--think of a butler can't quit. Slaves that do not complete their contract (i.e. runaways) can be dealt with very harshly, but no permanent harm is allowed to a temporary slave. Permanent slaves have fewer rights, but at no point is an owner allowed to cause the death of any voluntary slave.
	TJ remembered the piles of bills that he couldn't pay. He owed over $30,000, and couldn't ask anyone to cover it for him. He only had one option--to sell himself. Voluntary slavery is not taken lightly. In order to enter into a contract, one had to get a physician to sign off that they were healthy enough to be enslaved, mostly to protect the purchaser. Nobody wanted to by several thousand dollars for a slave that would die on them. Then they had to get a judge to sign off on them entering a contract. Blank ones could be picked up at any office supply store, and filled out at one's leisure, but they still had to bear the signature of a judge. After all the hoops to jump through were completed, then a suitable auction house had to be found.
	Finding an auction house was easy, even a small city had at least one, but some were more discriminating than others--both of their clientele and their product. Too much debt, and you could be rejected, but the higher-class houses would usually take you unless your particular skills were not in demand. You could only be rejected by two houses, and then you'd have to go through the whole process from step one, incurring more debt, as the process was not cheap.
	Finding a house with the right clientele was the really big concern for a potential slave. The better ones vetted potential bidders, making sure they'd keep the slaves happy and healthy, well as happy as a piece of property can be. Others didn't care, as long as the check cleared.
	TJ was pulled back to the present by the judge's voice. "V-452575, who was once known as TJ Weaselton, I hereby grant your application for permanent servitude. Your former identity shall be stricken from all public records, and any rights you had as a mere temporary slave are rescinded. You are now, and always shall be, a slave, and nothing more. You shall be taken to Slave Processing Unit 34 immediately, where your identification and a permanent slave mark will be branded into your flesh. After that, you shall be returned to your master as his property."
	TJ smiled. His master patted his butt, saying, "Good boy. I'll see you in a few days, be brave when you're branded, and think of me." The bailiff reached towards TJ's neck, clipping a leash to his collar, leading him out the side door of the courtroom to his new life.
	Once in the antechamber, TJ was ordered to strip. Already serving as a slave for almost three years, TJ did not hesitate. He removed his clothing, carefully folding it and placing it in the box provided. The guards instructed him to write his name on it, so that it could be delivered to his master. TJ started to write the name he was born with, but quickly corrected himself, and wrote his designation number. He had been spoiled by his master, and up until now, had been permitted to think of himself as TJ. He knew this would no longer be tolerated.
	TJ's chastity cage glinted in the light as he was led out and loaded into van. He sat down next to another naked slave, a woodchuck, who had been inducted into slavery by another judge at about the same time TJ was. TJ smiled at the woodchuck, "I guess you're permanent, too?" he asked. The woodchuck just stared ahead, he was already regretting whatever choices he had made to land him in this position. 
Chapter 2 – Processing
	Both TJ and the woodchuck had hoods placed over their heads, as was standard. Nobody aside from the owners and employees of the processing centers, least of all slaves, had any knowledge of their locations. Even the government inspectors were sworn to secrecy, and anyone revealing the location of such a center would soon find themselves being processed.
	The van drove for several hours, TJ felt the sun on his face through the burlap hood. He felt joy at this feeling, but more importantly, he was content. The woodchuck next to him kept shifting in his seat, but TJ didn’t mind—he had found his purpose, and would be fulfilling it to his best of ability in just a few more days. 
	They came to a stop, TJ heard the door slide open, then a gruff voice ordering him out. He felt shackles being locked around his wrists and ankles, then the hood was ripped off his head, the sudden light blinding him. He was led behind the woodchuck, and smiled as he admired the beautiful buttocks in front of him.
	A large concrete building, looming over them in dark cubicness, had a small door. As they were led inside, TJ surmised that the design of this building was to take away any hope that the inductees had. Being that most slaves were volunteers, TJ thought that this was unnecessary, but it probably cut down on expenses anyway. 
	They were greeted by a smiling lioness, who asked the driver of the van, “Two new slaves? One volunteer and one ‘non’?”
	“Aye, the fox is in love with its master, and the woodchuck, well, he lucked out—at least for a while.”
	At that point, TJ and the woodchuck were separated. The woodchuck was led to the left, and TJ was led to the right. The righthand corridor was painted a sickly green color, lined with unmarked, windowless doors. A fellow fox greeted TJ as he stepped into the hallway, he gave TJ a small smile, as he knew from first sight that he’d enjoy breaking in this new slave.
	“Fox,” he said, “Who are you?”
	TJ started to answer with his name, and suddenly found stars in his eyes and blood gushing from his nose.
	“Fox,” the question came again, “who are you?”
	“452575,” TJ quickly replied. He was still in shackles, and could not stop the blood coming from his nose, nor hold it to relieve the pain. He stood there, the blood staining his white underbelly, while his jailer, of sorts, chuckled. 
	“You’re learning, there’s that,” the fox chuckled as he opened the door to TJ’s room. “You can wander around the facility all you want, not that you’ll want to after your operation. You’ll be brought a bowl of tepid chow for both breakfast and supper.”
	TJ stepped into his cell—that’s what it really was, a cell, and sighed in relief as his shackles were removed. He glanced down at his chastity cage, and the other fox chuckled again. “I’m sure you know that you won’t have to worry about that pinching you for much longer.”
	TJ lay down on his cot, repeating to himself his number. He had three days to get that straight in his head. He was no longer TJ, that life was long gone. It was gone the day he met his master, who was now his owner, he just didn’t realize it at that time. Now he could never go back—and he was glad. He smiled as he repeated his number, he wanted to become his number, and to serve his master.
	The guard opened the door to TJ’s cell, and without a word entered and left a tray and a bowl of what appeared to be snot on the desk. “Normally,” the guard said, “at least for voluntaries, you’d get one last meal before being put on to the slave chow, but your master felt that it would be best for you to transition as quickly as possible. If I were you, I’d eat it while it’s still warm, I hear it gets worse when it’s cold.”
	There was no chair at the desk, slaves were not afforded such luxuries, TJ thought that he was lucky to have a cot, even if it was unpadded and he was given a single sheet to cover himself at night. TJ ate standing up, grimacing at the texture of his food but thinking that the taste wasn’t so bad—he could get used to it—he’d have to get used to it, “chow” was the only food slaves were allowed by law. 
	After his meal, TJ decided to stretch his legs, and left his cell. He heard a beep from above, and down the corridor, an automated message announcing that 452575 had left his quarters. There wasn’t much to see, all the doors in the L-shaped hallway were unmarked, and TJ decided not to see if any were locked, as curiosity was not one of his traits. He had a twinge of doubt as he returned to his cell, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. He thought to himself, “Did I make a mistake? No, ex-slaves are almost unemployable anyway, and I love my master with all my being. It is his happiness that I desire, even if I’m nothing more than property to him. Besides, it’s too late now.”
	Upon his return, TJ found the bowl and tray removed, and a note “requesting” his presence in the front lobby. Leaving his room, he once again heard the beep and the announcement that he left his cell. At the end of the hall, he found the door locked, which made sense, a lot of slaves would get cold feet and try to escape. Even at this point, before being returned to his owner, an escaped slave faced the death penalty, still many slaves had tried to escape, very few were successful.
	Knocking on the door, he was greeted by a handsome opossum wearing a white coat. “Hello, 452575. I’ll be performing a few procedures for you today. Please follow me.” The opossum smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth, then led the way through the central hallway and into a room with the word “DOCKING” over the door. “Take a seat, please,” he said, motioning to what appeared to be a dentist chair, only with restrainment straps. 
	As TJ sat down, the opossum fixed the straps around TJ’s wrists and ankles, as well as across his chest, “Don’t worry. These are just so you don’t hurt yourself. It’s best to get this over with first, everything else will be child’s play afterwards.”
	Trying to relax, TJ repeated his number to himself. A bit of pain, he told himself, but the end result would be more contentment than he ever had before. TJ gulped as the opossum brought out a tray of scalpels, and what looked like a pair of stainless-steel kitchen shears. Next to them was a cauterizing gun.
	Trying to take his mind off of things, TJ looked around the sanitarily white room. He felt relief when he spotted the opossum’s veterinary degree. “At least a medical professional would be mutilating me,” he thought, “Master would want nothing but the best.”
	“Some slaves think it helps if they close their eyes,” the opossum said in a soft voice, has he brought the scalpel towards TJ’s ears. TJ winced, and the opossum paused, “this will be over soon.”
	“Sir,” TJ interjected, knowing that it was against protocol to speak, but doing so anyway, “do you have a gag available?” Knowing that he had very little pain tolerance, and also that a video of what was to come would be provided for his master, a gag seemed like a good way to cut down on his screams. The opossum nodded, and reaching into a drawer, took out a ball gag and strapped it tightly into place. 
	“You’ll have to wear that for the duration of your stay, 452575. That’s the punishment for speaking out of place.” The opossum returned to his work, cutting ½ inch off the tips of TJ’s ears, the first of many markers of slavery.
	Tears filled TJ’s eyes, and he bit hard into the gag, his screams silenced. He knew this was coming, and had tried to prepare for it mentally. His tears weren’t just from the pain, but from the fact that his ears were cut. All his life, he had been told how beautiful his ears were, they were his pride, and now instead of coming to perfect points, they ended in ugly flat tops. “Cest la vie,” he thought, “it’s still worth it.”
	As the blood ran down TJ’s face, the opossum started heating up the cauterizing gun, and as it reached temperature, took the shears into a paw. “452575”, he said, “which paw would you prefer?” Slaves usually had their left pinky removed, but some, like TJ were left handed. Some masters didn’t care, but others showed their slaves kindness, after all, happy property was good property.
	Being gagged, TJ couldn’t respond orally, but waved a bit with his right paw. The opossum understood, and with a professional deftness, severed TJ’s pinky before quickly cauterizing the wound. TJ screamed again into his gag, but soon the pain was over, all that was left was the burning sensation from the cauterizing gun. 
	“Good boy,” the opossum praised TJ, “the worst is over now.” He loosened TJ’s restraints, but aside from the chest strap left them on. “A bit of movement will be good for you.” He dressed TJ’s mangled paw in white bandages, and sprayed a bit of betadine on his ears.
	“You look good like that. I always thought flat ears were sexy. I guess that’s why I became a vet.” The opossum chuckled, “Maybe your master will let you be my patient. I’d like to give you more complete exam.”
	The opossum left TJ alone in the room, his ears still seeping blood, and the dull ache from his modifications keeping him from truly relaxing. He kept repeating his number back to himself—being 452575 and not TJ was the hardest part. The vet returned, holding a syringe, TJ knew what would be coming next—his tagging.
	The syringe held a RFID chip and a small quantity of nanobots. It would be injected into his neck, adjacent to his third cervical vertebra. The nanobots would permanently bond the chip to the vertebra, making it impossible to remove. Anybody with a scanner would know that he was a slave could look up not only his master’s identity, but any information his master wanted to be associated with him.
	The opossum stuck TJ with a needle, the fox hardly feeling the prick, and pressed on the plunger. “See,” he said, “that wasn’t so bad.” He patted TJ on the head. “We’re almost done for the day. Just one more procedure from me, then you’ll be in the capable hands of my assistant. Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow to get that uncomfortable chastity cage removed,” the opossum chuckled again, enjoying teasing his patient.
	“Since you’ll be wearing that gag for quite some time, you’ll need a feeding tube.” The vet took a nasogastric tube from a nearby drawer, and began to measure TJ to accurately install it. “Lucky for you, slave chow works fine with these.” He began inserting the tube into TJ’s nose, and as it entered his throat, he gagged slightly. “Just try to swallow,” the opossum said soothingly. After the tube made its way into TJ’s stomach, it was secured with tape against his nose and behind his ear. A large syringe was filled with Slave Chow, and the opossum slowly injected it through the NG tube into TJ’s stomach, followed by a dose of water to flush the tube.
	The opossum patted TJ’s head again, admiring his handywork, "What happens next isn’t considered a medical procedure, so I’ll bid my adieu until the morrow. I’m sure your master will be proud when he sees how brave you were during this.” He left TJ strapped down to his chair, his fur caked with his own dried blood and tears. A small fennec entered the room, bouncing up and down.
	“Hey hey!” he said, “It looks like someone’s having a bad day. That’s a lot of blood, innit?” TJ just nodded. “Don’t be like that,” the fennec continued, “We’re going to have lots of fun. I enjoy my job, you should enjoy letting me enjoy it!”
	Being gagged, TJ couldn’t respond with anything but a nod. “Oh,” the fennec noticed TJ’s gag, “I bet you spoke out of turn. That’s a naughty slave. You’ll learn quickly though, you look pretty clever.” TJ noticed that the fennec’s ears were clipped off square at the top—he was dealing with a fellow slave. 
	“Let’s get you your tattoo,” the fennec said in his still bubbly voice, “then we’ll brand you. After that you’ll have the rest of the day to yourself. “I’m 27654, by the way. The center owns me.” TJ wondered if the fennec was neutered. Judging by his high voice, TJ guessed that he probably was, and at an early age. “We’re going to have to remove the gag for a few minutes. I need full access to your maw.”
	The fennec unbuckled the straps on TJ’s gag, freeing his mouth. He moved his jaw up and down a few times, it already being sore even after just a few hours being held slightly ajar. TJ wondered what his mouth would feel like after several days being gagged. As TJ stretched his muscles, the fennec took a tattoo gun from the drawer and inserted a fresh needle. 
	Turning the gun on, and peeling up TJ’s lip, the fennec began to mark TJ with his number, 452575. TJ winced at the pain, but didn’t cry out. The fennec giggled with glee at TJ’s discomfort, a 180 turn from the opossum’s solemn approach to his job. As he finished, he stopped to admire his handiwork. “I think it’s my best work yet,” he said, “the gothic font really suits you.”
	“Now it’s time for your branding. Your master just wants something simple—his initials.” The fennec frowned, “I wish it was something more elaborate. Even with your gag, I’m sure your screams would be delightful.” He began to shave TJ’s left buttocks. He plugged the iron into the electrical outlet, and let it get to temperature. He used the hot tip to etch “TK” into the naked flesh, smiling as a blister formed. He then took a scalpel and cut into the blister, ensuring a beautiful, at least in the fennec’s mind, a scar.
	“That should do nicely,” said the fennec, “Once your fur grows back over the scar, everyone will know that you’re owned by a ‘TK’.” He then stripped off his scrubs, “I know you’re curious about my genitals, and, as you can see, I have none.”
	The fennec strapped TJ’s gag back in, “I wish you could lick my flat spot. When they neutered me, they redirected my nerves, so it’s a hundred times better than a blow-job, but you were a naughty fox. I have to suffer.” You’re soon to be neutered, ask your master to nullify you. It’s awesome.” 
	“Even though you were naughty, you still deserve a bit of a treat,” the fennec unlocked TJ’s chastity cage. “You don’t deserve this, but I do. Every slave I’ve branded has given me their last load.” He started licking TJ’s penis. TJ was instantly hard—he had been locked up since he first signed the contract for temporary enslavement, and this attention was well missed.
	The fennec continued licking, and without much fanfare, TJ started spurting like a teenager. Afterall, he hadn’t had anyone, not even himself, touch his dick for years. The fennec greedily slurped up what had already come out, then wrapped his lips around TJ’s member. 
	He massaged the fully erect penis with his agile tongue, he had been enslaved as a young fox, and was rapidly trained in all things erotic. Or, at least as many erotic things a dickless eunuch could do. TJ spurted more, and the fennec kept going. After slurping up all the come TJ could produce, he stood up and let the newly indoctrinated slave relax.
	“Let’s get you cleaned up. That blood makes your fur look terrible.” There was a hose attached to a spigot in the corner of the room. The fennec turned on the cold tap, and sprayed TJ off, chilling and drenching him to the bone. In a few brief, but uncomfortable minutes, TJ’s fur was free of blood, but the wound on his hand needed a dry dressing, he changed TJ’s bandages, and released him from the restraints. The fennec bounced away, and TJ made his way back into his cell, the results of his recent modifications still throbbing.
	TJ lay down on his cot, the day’s events repeating in his head. TJ knew that he was a slave, and that this was part of it, but it seemed that it was too much, too soon. There was a note on his desk, requesting that he report to the kitchen at six o’clock. TJ gulped, knowing that “kitchen duty” usually meant amputation of a limb, then standing as a restaurant patron consumed the “donor”, then expected a “thank you” for a compliment.
	He finally dozed off, being awakened the next morning by a klaxon. TJ knew that tardiness would result in a punishment, and rushed to the kitchen. He didn’t have much to do in the morning, dressing wasn’t required, and the gag prevented oral hygiene. Arriving in the kitchen, the cook, a portly bull, and two other slaves were awaiting him.
	“Good morning,” the cook greeted TJ, “Today we’re going to learn about the preparation of slave chow.” The two other slaves, a hyena and a lion greeted the cook with a “Good morning!”, TJ, being gagged, just nodded.
	“Slave chow is all you be allowed to eat for the rest of your lives. This diet will permanently alter your bodies, and after a few months, consuming food that is meant for actual people will make you violently ill.” The three slaves nodded, taking mental notes. 
	“The proprietary formula contains all the vitamins, minerals, fats, proteins and carbohydrates needed to keep a slave healthy and fully functional. It is also almost fully absorbable by your digestive tract. Only 1% of it will be expelled as waste, and it is formulated to slow down your large bowel—you’ll only have one movement per week, and that’s after an enema. You’ll never again take a dump like a person.”
	“This is to ensure your master’s maximum enjoyment—after all, who wants a bunch of slave shit on their dick?” The cook, a Labrador retriever, chuckled, a huge bulge appearing underneath his slacks. He obviously enjoyed his job.
	“Who here needs to urinate?” the cook asked.
	All three slaves raised their paws. The cook pointed at a nearby pot. “Go in there.” The slaves stood around the pot, and without any shyness, emptied their bladders. They had all been serving their masters for several years, and knew the penalty for hesitation in such matters. 
	The bull ordered them to lift the pot to the stove, then opened a large bag marked “Slave Chow, Grade B – for training purposes only”, emptying it into the pot. “Slave Chow can be mixed with any liquid, but water or urine is recommended. Urine is the preferred mixer, as it saves valuable water and helps cover the flavor of pure Chow.” The cool instructed TJ to turn on the burner and let the mixture slowly come to a boil whilst stirring gently.
	“Stir too hard, and it’ll get foamy. Many slaves find that foamy Chow is extremely unpalatable.” TJ wondered how much more unpalatable the tepid goop he choked down the day before could be. He was almost thankful for his feeding tube—at least he’d be spared eating this for another few days. “As soon as it comes to a boil, it’s done. When you’re cooking in your master’s house, be sure to turn on a ventilation fan. You don’t want your master’s kitchen to smell like piss.” The bull chuckled.
	“Slave Chow tastes best fresh, so if it’s permitted, cook each meal before consumption. Otherwise you’ll be eating it cold.” As the cook lectured, the three slaves’ breakfast started to simmer. TJ, being experienced at cooking for his master, turned off the heat.
	“You two: serve yourselves,” the cook said, “Whatever’s left over will go into the fox’s feeding tube.” The two slaves took their bowls of Chow, and looking around for spoons, found none. “Eat on the floor like the animals you are. Only real people are allowed utensils in my kitchen, not slaves.” TJ watched as they kneeled down in front of their bowls, pressing their snouts into the foul-looking goop, and slurping it up.
	The cook took a feeding syringe out of a drawer—TJ assumed gagged slaves were a common occurrence here—and filled TJ’s stomach with three doses of Chow. Peeing into a glass, he filled the syringe and used his urine to flush the NG tube. The trio, with bloated stomachs were instructed to go back to their rooms. “That’s the last meal of the day for 452575. He’s due for a neutering tomorrow. All three of you should get some rest.” He flicked TJ’s chastity cage hard enough to cause a twinge of pain as they exited the kitchen.
	TJ lay back down on his cot, counting down the hours until he’d be neutered. He supposed he should be feeling nervous, or regret, or an urge to flee, but he didn’t. He was actively looking forward to this final step before he could be delivered to his master as a slave: not a friend, certainly not a lover, not even a mere servant, but a permanent slave. He smiled and wagged his tail a bit. There was not a single twinge of anything but contentment on his mind.
	Wanting something to read, he left his room and wandered down to the door a fellow slave mentioned was the library. He strolled through the scant bookshelves, his eyes fixing on one of the larger tomes, an obscure 19th Century novel. Reading it while walking down the hall back to his room, he passed a mirror, and stopped to admire himself.
	He wiggled his now flat ears, and held up his paw, now short one finger and smiled. These were the marks of a slave, TJ knew that it was his destiny to be one, pre-ordained in the stars before he was born. He gingerly touched his brand, it had scabbed over, but was still sensitive to the touch. Once healed, it would be a perfect complement to the other marks. Anyone, at first glance would know that he was a lowly slave, and not worthy from even being addressed by a person. This thought brought TJ joy as he continued down the hall back to his room.
	He fell asleep reading his book, and woke up on an operating table, his legs spread apart, and his feet in the air. “Oh good,” he heard the opossum vet say from between his legs, “you’re awake. That means we can begin.”
	TJ battled confusion, and realized that he had been somehow drugged and transported to the operating theater while still asleep. Lots of slaves would try to bolt at this point, even if they had been cooperative for the preceding procedures. 
	TJ felt a slight prick as Novocain was injected into several spots around his scrotum. “Unlike the other modifications, we do give some relief during a neutering. This allows the slave to fully enjoy the experience.” He pushed a button on the operating table, raising TJ’s head enough to get a good view of his soon-to-be-removed organs. 
“After we open the scrotum, if you want, we’ll even let you snip the cords. A lot of slaves get a lifelong satisfaction with the knowledge that they neutered themselves.” The opossum grinned, showing his many teeth. “But if that’s not for you, I’ll do all the work. Either way, try to stay comfortable.” 
The opossum unlocked TJ’s chastity cage, placing it in an envelope. “This is useless to both you and your master. I’ll see that your parents get it, along with an explanation of your fate. They deserve to know that they raised a brave fox who took becoming a slave without so much as a whimper.”
TJ nodded, thinking of his mother’s reaction to the knowledge that she’d never see her son again. She was against the initial period of slavery, but understood that TJ needed to take care of his own debts, in his own way. And now there was not a chance that she’d ever see him again. This thought gave TJ a bit of regret, and a bit of sorrow, but he as a slave, and a slave he shall be.
“Let’s get started then,” the opossum took a scalpel and carefully sliced a small slit in the side of TJ’s scrotum. He began to hum “The First Cut is the Deepest” by Sheryl Crow. Smiling as he did so. He enjoyed the neutering of slaves most of all, it was fun—the thought of emasculating other men gave the opossum much pleasure—but also, he was allowed to use painkillers for this. He had long proclaimed the other practices to be barbaric, and was an active campaigner for most of the surgeries to be done under general anesthesia. Even if the slaves weren’t people, they still didn’t deserve what amounted to torture.
The Novocain did its job, TJ didn’t feel a thing. Squeezing the first testicle out, grasped it and pulled. TJ felt a slight tugging, but didn’t react. After clamping off the blood vessels to the testicle, the vet handed TJ a pair of scissors. “452575, you may do the honors.” 
Grinning around his gag, TJ snipped his testicle off. The opossum checked to make sure that the clamp held in place, and the process was repeated for the other side. A few stitches to seal the pair of wounds, and a gauze bandage was placed over TJ’s swelling scrotum. “You’re all done,” the vet instructed, “take it easy until the swelling goes down, then you can be delivered back to your master.” He patted TJ’s head. “You’re a good fox, and I guess this is what you wanted, right?”
TJ nodded as he was helped into a wheelchair and taken back to his room. As he lay in the cot, dozing a bit, and the past days events playing back in his head, TJ knew in his heart that he was no a person, he was nothing, he was a slave. And this made him glad. 
452575 relaxed and dreamed of his master’s face, which he would be seeing again soon.