Zyon has been living on the streets since his parents abandoned him when he was five. Now at age twenty, he’s resigned himself to a life of solitude and living in his alleyway. But little does he know, his best friend Seàn is trying to save up enough money to provide for the both of them. And if that’s not enough, neither of them know about the mysterious Axel, who’s keeping a close eye on both of them.
Age Rating: 18+ Age Rating: 18+ (Content Warning: BDSM, Kink)
Stray Puppy by Anxious Coffee Boy is now available to read on the Galatea app! Read the first two chapters below, or download Galatea for the full experience.
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I had lived on the street for as long as I could remember.
My earliest memories of life before the streets were blurry faces yelling and hitting each other.
Then suddenly being in the middle of the road, alone and confused.
I learned early on that I couldn't trust anyone.
At five, few months after being dumped, I was taken in by a woman with the promises of food, but she decided to use me as a punching bag to end her stress.
I left after a week, hungry.
I also learned to live off my instincts.
Stealing is common knowledge—a food stand with the worker gone or not paying attention is free game, and anything in a store is game if small enough.
And if I get caught: run, fast, and make distractions out of the environment.
I now live in an alley between two abandoned buildings. Over the years I got things to create a small shelter.
A big blue tarp hangs between four loosened bricks, covering my head and my worn-out blanket.
I even found a pillow on the side of the road in front of apartment buildings.
I like the quiet of my alley.
No one comes this way from the main part of the city. Cars go by, but not a lot of people.
And if they do, I don't talk with them; strangers usually leave me alone, I'm dirty and my clothes are too big and torn.
The only person I talk to is the man at the place down the street, who gives me the leftovers from meals no one ate.
Mainly greens and brightly-colored foods—the man called them fruits and vegetables.
(I didn't know that’s what they were called, I just called them food.)
Sometimes he'll give me full meals, but he said he'd get fired if his boss found me outside getting the food.
When I first met him I was around seventeen, and one of the first memories I have of him is him calling me stupid.
I didn't know that word, so he explained it to me, and I agreed.
Sometimes I hear women or men ask kids, “How was school?”
It confused me at one time, because I never went to whatever school is.
I only understand because I’ve had to learn things to survive—some words still confuse me, and certain things I don't understand, but everything else I don't really need.
Just sleep, eat, and run.
So, I guess I'm stupid.
But at least I know how to survive. As long as I keep myself alive, I don't care if I know what it is I’m eating.
My days aren’t too busy.
I wake up and search for breakfast—there's a food stand a block away that sells really good hot dogs, as the stand says.
Then I walk around. At night I go to the place the nice man is at to get the leftovers, then back home to my alley.
Today is more chilly out than usual. The thin shirt and shorts I found aren't very warm, but at least I'm wearing something.
I'm going back to my alley.
I'm not there much during the day, as for some reason people are banging around inside one of the buildings, and there's big vehicles with different stuff.
They've been at it for a long time, and the noises bother me.
But the man at the food store wasn't at the back door and all the food stands are closed, so I have no choice other than go home and wait to eat tomorrow.
Once I get to my alley I see a long line of people in weird outfits standing outside the building that was previously abandoned.
There's a bright purple (eye-hurting) sign at the top reading PLAYHOUSE.
Loud music is echoing out whenever the dark double doors open to allow another group in.
A man is reading something that the odd people are giving him and either pushing them away or opening the door.
I don't like it, it's too much noise and too many people.
Some give me dirty looks as the bright lights and sign light up the darkness.
I turn and run down my alley to get away from them.
I'm safe in here, under my tarp and with my blanket.
I lie down and close my eyes, hoping the thundering from inside stops, but it never does—it feels as if it’s shaking the ground.
The cheers and voices echo from around the corner.
My breathing is getting heavier, my chest hurts and stings, my eyes are wet like my cheeks, but I don't know when I started crying.
I don't know what's happening to me.
I never felt this scared before, even when I was small and new to the streets. I was scared sometimes, but I got over it quickly.
This is new, and I don't know what to do.
Why am I scared? Why am I shaking and crying?
I'm suddenly colder than before, and I curl in on myself.
I don't like this, I don't like the noise or the people or the new place.
I just want the quiet back.
I slowly walk back to my alley with a shiny red apple from the man at the restaurant.
I don't want the strange men at the new building looking at me, and the noise hasn't stopped, so I take as long as possible to get home.
I’m uncomfortable around my alley now. Not because I'm ashamed of it, but because of the men that walk past my home and watch me from the long line.
Whenever one sees me, he points me out, and then I'll have a group staring at me like I'm something that shouldn't be here.
When they're the ones who shouldn't be here.
I was here first. It's my alley.
Sadly it isn't a very long walk, and as soon as I turn a corner onto my street, I hear the music.
I stick to the wall, hoping the line won't pay attention to me this time.
That hope is shattered as I get to the entrance of my alley, where a man in black shiny pants and a chain around his neck points me out to the larger man he's with.
I duck my head as I run into the alley, to my blanket, sitting with my knees to my chest.
The music sounds louder somehow, like they’ve turned it up every day for the pass two weeks.
I attempt to focus on my apple, taking small bites to make it last long enough to fill me a little, then focusing on my chewing to distract me from the noise.
It seems to help, but only a tiny bit, and soon enough I don't have an apple anymore.
I curl up on my blanket and cover my ears with my hands and pillow. It doesn't help, but at least I can hear myself think.
I start to count the bricks; I get to twenty before my eyes slip shut.
I feel myself yawn, closing in on sleep…
…until I hear a shoe echo in the alley.
I spring up just in time to catch a light to my eye. Gasping, I cover my eye and blink a few times.
The footsteps are getting closer.
I can only back myself into the corner, preparing myself to attack and defend my space.
“What are you doing here? I can't have beggars on my property.”
The voice is male, deep and husky, stern, echoing against the walls.
only growl, as if to scare him away. It doesn't work.
“You're making customers complain with your dirty ass. Get out.”
I whimper when the steps stop in front of me, the light showcasing my blanket and tarp; which promptly gets torn to the ground.
I curl up against the corner and growl, feeling my eyes water up as the stranger ruins the home I’ve worked so hard to find and make.
He scoffs as he turns the light from the tarp to me, seeing my watery eyes and the way I snarl.
The light is too bright for me to see him, but I hear him mumble, “fuck.”
I heard that was a bad word and assume I look bad. I do, but it still hurts a little.
My eyes follow the light’s movement as it gets lower.
I hear the man move, shuffling closer, which only results in me trying to move more into the corner, growling once again at the stranger.
He chuckles quietly at the action, “Vocal boy, huh?”
I'm confused by what he means but don't move from my tense position, ready to bite or scratch to get him away from me and my alley.
“I apologize for what I said, and did to your little roof. I realize I don't know you or why you're out here. It wasn't very nice of me, and I hope you can forgive me.”
His voice has changed to soft and gentle, the stern tone gone.
I stare at the man’s outline; the lights from the street shining on him and the one he holds block his face from me.
I can tell he's big—his shoulders are huge, how thick his arm is.
“I'm Axel. What's your name, little one.”
I hear his feet shuffle against the ground like he's inching closer.
The wall hurts my bony body, but I have to protect myself somehow. My chest is starting to hurt again.
Everything is too much today, the sound still blasting—and now the man in front of me wants to scare me away from my home.
My breathing breaks and gets heavier, my eyes overflow with tears.
I realize I'm shaking again, like the first night the music appeared. I still don't understand why this happens. I know I'm scared, but enough to cry and shake like this?
The man, Axel, has me trapped. I can't do anything except place my hands over my ears, close my eyes to trick myself that everything is gone.
It doesn't work—the rumble of the music through the wall comes even through my hands, and I can feel his presence.
“Shit, calm down, boy. You're okay, I won't hurt you. Deep breaths, take deep breaths.”
I hear his breathing get heavier.
I don't know what he's doing, but he seems to know what's wrong with me, so I try to do as he said, breathing as deeply as I can.
It doesn't work instantly, like I want. The stranger is still breathing oddly and telling me to follow the breathing.
I don't trust it or think it'll work, but play along just in case it does. This happens again.
After forever my crying has stopped, the shaking isn't as bad, and my chest doesn't hurt.
The breathing did help. I'm going to remember it for the future if a situation like this comes around again. Which I hope it doesn't.
“There you go, breathe slowly for a few minutes, calm yourself down. Good, much better.”
The stranger keeps talking like that as I do what he says in hopes I'll get better and he'll leave.
As my body feels calmer, my eyes get heavy, and when I blink, I see two of everything.
I know enough that when that happens, I should sleep or eat something, but I can't do either as there's a man who wants to take my home and the nice man who gives me food wasn't at the restaurant tonight.
I assume such a strange night—an invader and another odd crying session—has been too much for me.
I'm not used to people, especially this close, and talking to me.
My body seems to want to sleep, and try as I might, it won't listen even as my eyes shut.
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Usually I avoid homeless people, just because I know there's a chance that some are addicts and will use my money for drugs.
I'd rather not have that.
If I do end up in front of a homeless person, I'll buy them food or give them an address to a job I know will hire them.
Other than that, I don't bother. I have things to do other than giving away money—a club to run, people to pay and costumers to please.
My club is a BDSM community favorite. I just relocated it to somewhere people can come and enjoy instead of dealing with rudeness when waiting in line.
When I bought the place the landowner had mentioned a homeless man who lived in the alley next to the building.
He said that the man is really sweet and keeps to himself, that he's been there for years now.
I shrugged him off, assuming the crowd of people and the music would scare him off.
I never saw the man myself, but a few of my employees had seen a figure sleeping in the alley when they came in for work.
I knew he was the cause of the complaints.
Customers demanding the man that lurks around in dirty clothes be gone, complaining that he's so sickly thin he makes some submissives uncomfortable and doms want to force food in his throat.
They said he was covered in dirt, that he smelled, and I got sick of it.
I wasn't prepared to find what I did—I was expecting an old man, one I'd need to bribe to stay away, but the young man I found looked barely nineteen.
The shirt he wore was torn, and the shorts showed off his far too prominent leg bones.
His reaction to me wasn't expected either: it was all primal need to survive, severely threatened by my presence in his area, so much so he worked himself into a panic attack.
The way he covered his ears hinted that he dislikes the sound of the music from the club.
Understandable, but still…it was as if he’d never socialized with people or even heard music before.
When he passes out from either exhaustion, starvation, or just the stress on his mind and body, I genuinely feel bad.
I’m certain that a good bath and a nice schedule of meals will make him more attractive.
My dominant side flares; the need to help him and take him in is too much.
I can’t just leave him out here now that I know he's in more need than I originally thought.
This leads to me laying the boy out on an old blanket on my couch in my apartment.
I make sure to mute the TV. I drove with the radio off, too, as to not spook him.
I carefully sit next to him as I take in his features.
He's pale, very, skin almost see-through and covered in grease and dirt or mud.
His black hair is tangled and greasy.
Cheekbones glare out at me. His jaw is sharp, mainly because I can only see bone and no fat.
I leave him be, sit back to watch TV silently and let him sleep as long as he needs.
I don't know how long he's slept on the dirty ground or if he’s ever even slept on a cushion, so it’s best I let him alone for now.
It’s hours before the boy moves a muscle. When he does it's to slide his small, bony hand on the blanket.
He must feel something he dislikes, because he jumps up and falls off the couch.
I sit up to make sure he's okay, but the movement just makes him freeze as he struggles to sit up on his knees.
Green eyes filled with fear, greasy hair falling in his dirty face, small body starting to shake again.
He whimpers and shuffles away from me, glancing back around the lit-up apartment and the ceiling-to-floor windows that look out into the city.
He instantly jumps away from them and behind the couch.
Watching him I know I have my work cut out for me; he clearly only runs on pure instinct.
It won't be easy to teach him otherwise, hell, he might never get over this if it’s all he’s known.
His brain might've just rewired to fit life on the street.
Standing, I slowly round the couch and keep my distance from him, lowering myself to the floor like one would a frightened animal to be less of a threat.
His wide green eyes are watery now as he curls back into himself like back at the alley.
“Shh, shh, you're okay. I won't hurt you, I promise. This a safe place. No else is here. Just you and me.”
I keep my tone soothing and gentle, making sure my muscular build is as small as I can make it so he won't spook.
His eyes stare at me for minutes before he turns turns to look back around, but he keeps me in his view.
Obviously he doesn't believe that he's safe, probably because I invaded his home and ruined his small roof tarp. So, I change tactic.
“Are you hungry, little one? Can I make you something eat?”
Immediately his eyes snap to me and I see the internal struggle to accept food from me. His stomach growls before he can decide.
I chuckle. “Better listen to that, we don't want to stay hungry, right? Let me make something. Be right back.”
He watches as I stand and walk to the spotless kitchen, deciding that a simple sandwich would be good on his stomach.
Too much his body would reject. Small goes a long way.
Whipping it up takes five minutes, and I place a plate on the marble island as I look over at the boy, who hasn't moved from his spot as he watches me.
“You can't eat on the floor, come and sit up here. If you can keep this down, I'll get another for you. But I won't bring it over there. We eat on tables.”
He hesitates, eyeing the hardwood floors with rugs on them like he doesn't understand how to walk on them.
Instead of trying to stand, he merely crawls, avoiding the fake fur rugs as he does.
The dom side of me is overjoyed, He's basically a little pet I just adopted, and I have to care for him.
The thought of knowing I took this boy from the street and am now giving him a roof over his head and food to eat is unbelievable.
He may not appreciate it now, but in a few weeks when he feels better than he did, he'll relish it.
He stops a few feet away from me, slowly standing with the help of the chair.
He's only up to my chest, I assume around five-foot-five, which, to my six foot six, is tiny.
As much as I wish to just lift him into the seat I know he won't like being touched right now. Instead, I watch as he slowly and cautiously climbs into the seat.
Once he's arranged I slide the plate closer to him, and as soon as my hand is out of view, he assaults the sandwich.
It's the fastest I ever saw someone eat. He didn't even have time to taste anything. It's honestly sad.
Once he finishes he stares up at me, not unlike a puppy would, green eyes wide.
I smirk but comply with the silent plead and fix up another sandwich.
When I place it on the plate, I quickly take it from in front of him, earning a confused whimper.
“When you eat this, eat slowly. It's dangerous, eating without chewing, we don't want you choking. Can you slowly eat this for me?”
He blinks at me but ultimately nods.
I smile as return the sandwich, which he picks up and bites off one mouthful to actually chew. He glances up at me a few times to make sure I won't take it, but I only smile and nod at him.
He seems to relax the more he eats. By the time he finishes he isn't trembling.
“Good job, thank you,” I praise, a habit from having subs around. He seems to like it as I catch his eyes light up for a second.
“Well, we got something in you, a good start. Now I'd like to see if you can answer a question for me.”
I slowly lean on the island, far enough away to not touch him.
He only blinks, then turns away to get preoccupied with the table or the sink, or the chair, even the kitchen towels.
I snap my fingers to get his attention back on me.
His head jerks up and he looks me over to find the cause of the noise, I snap again just to show him.
“I need you to focus on me, honey. Can you try and answer a question for me?”
Waiting for him to nod takes a minute, but eventually he agrees, though he looks apprehensive.
“Thank you. Can you tell me your name?”
He looks as if he didn't comprehend the question, so I clarify.
“What can I call you?”
He brightens like an excited puppy, spine straightening and eyes widening,
“Oh! Man at place said Zyon.”
His voice is soft, cracking here and there, like he just started puberty. It's delicate, precious really.
Man at place? I assume this man named him when he was younger.
“Zyon. I like it. How long have you been in that alley, Zyon?”
It stings my heart how fast he brightens at the mention of the alley, eyes radiant, an optimistic smile on his lips.
“I go home now?”
His tone is pure enthusiasm. It pains me to have to upset him, but I can't allow him to return to that alley.
I shake my head and see him deflate.
“I can't let you stay in the alley, Zyon. It's dirty, it's close to winter, and you need better shelter and food.”
He whimpers, starting to shiver again at the thought of leaving his safe haven.
I know he doesn't understand why I'm keeping him here—just knows I came in and ruined his home, then brought him to an unknown area.
I need to find the man who named him. Maybe he can tell me more about Zyon.
I know this boy isn't comprehensive enough to understand how long he's been on the street, or answer more questions.
“How about this? If you give me and this place a chance tonight, we'll go out and visit the man at that place.”
He nods, eyes discouraged. At least he agreed.
I smile. “Thank you, sweetie. For now, you need a bath. Will you let me help you get clean?”
He's quick to shake his head, not trusting me enough to allow me to touch him or see him naked.
I expected that, though I'm concerned he won't wash as thoroughly as he should.
“Okay. Come on, I'll show you the bathroom and get some clean clothes for you.”
He carefully climbs down from the chair, only to drop straight to his knees when his feet touch the floor.
I don't mind him crawling as long as he wants to crawl, so I don't mention it and just walk slow enough for him to keep up as I lead him through the living room, the hall, the bathroom, my bedroom.
It soothes my dominant side that I can hear his crawling, knowing that he is depending on me to provide shelter, food, and altogether a better life than he had.
My bathroom is massive. The tub is basically a hot tub, the size of a bed, and the shower is all glass.
I debate on whether to introduce him to the shower or tub first—he obviously hasn't been clean in a while, and I don't doubt the shower would freak him out a bit.
Tub it is.
Turning the water on, I hear him startle at the sudden gush of water.
“It's okay, honey, just the water, it won't hurt you.”
As I reassure him I adjust the temperature, not wanting it so warm it burns him or so cold it freezes him.
I place my hand under the stream to check, humming when it feels just perfect.
Zyon is staring at me like he's never seen a person before. He sits on his haunches, hands rubbing the tile idly.
“Now, I need you to pay special attention to my words, okay?”
I lower myself to his level, hands in view on my knees. When he nods, I continue.
“There are two bottles in the corner. One is shampoo and the other is a body wash. I would like you to try to use both. The shampoo is for your hair and the body wash for your body. Keep both out of your eyes.”
Zyon blinks multiple times at the instructions, seeming overwhelmed, and as wrong, as it is, I hoped it would overwhelm him.
If he realizes he can't possibly keep the bottles straight, clean himself, and keep the soap from his eyes, he’ll allow me to help.
I know he won’t be able to clean himself fully, he has years’ worth of filth on him and is so used to the dirt he wouldn't know where to wash.
He nods hesitantly, and I grin at him.
“Thank you. The water should be ready. Undress and hop in. I'll go get some clothes.”
Turning the water off, I smile at him again before walking out into the connected bedroom, where I shut the door but keep it cracked to hear him.
I pull out an old long-sleeved black shirt and some dark red briefs and then hear a confused whimper from the bathroom.
Smirking to myself, I go to check on him, knocking on the door, seeing his sickly fragile body in the tub, now enveloped in bubbles.
“You okay? Want help, sweetie?”
He looks down for a second, then nods, looking back up when he hears me get closer.
Sitting on the side of the tub, I smile gently down at him as I grab a washcloth.
I see the body wash and shampoo open floating in the water, the source of the bubbles.
“It's okay to want help. Actually, I want you to ask me for help. I want to help you.”
Zyon blinks up at me, then at my hands, as I wet the rag and gather the soap on it.
“May I touch you?”
He gulps. It takes a few minutes, but I'm patient. I know he probably hasn't had a person touch him in years.
I hum gently when he nods, staring at me through damp hair as I carefully but firmly start to wash his back.
He holds in a growl of outrage when I feel the nobs of his spine, the lines of his ribs.
As I'm massaging the soap into his back and torso, his muscles relax slowly but surely, until he's limp into my hands.
Hearing his contented sigh makes my heart swell.
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