Stray Puppy

Axel

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 customers 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 one 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 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 tactics.

“Are you hungry, little one? Can I make you something to 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 plea 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 I 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.

A start.

“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 is 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 knobs 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.