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She is soft, though, and I am not. I am barbed all over. It would hurt her. I have never cared about hurting someone before, but I care about hurting Bee.
"Well," Bee asks, crossing those thick, yet delicate, enticing legs of hers as she sits on the stool. "Have you given it much thought?"
My cock twitches in my trou. "All the time," I growl. "But mostly late at night."
Her head tilts to the side and a little frown crosses her rounded face. "Why at night?"
Because it is the only privacy I have, those moments in the darkness when I can hide in the back of my cage and rub the heel of my palm against my aching shaft? "I do not want to be overheard."
"Oh." Bee leans forward. "Would you like your new name to be a secret, then?"
My name?
I suddenly want to laugh. Of course we are talking about names and not the violent longings I have for her. "I suppose it does not matter," I say, swiftly changing subjects before my cock hardens enough to tent the front of the loose trou that they have given me to wear. I touch the collar at my neck, because it feels strange against my fur, but not as obtrusive as the cuffs were. "What do you want to call me?"
Her brows draw together and she laughs, for once her smile real and genuine. "That's not how names work."
"How do they work, then?"
"You pick your name."
"Did you pick yours?"
The rounded swells of her cheeks flush with color and her scent heightens. "Well, not really. My mother gave it to me at birth. It was my grandmother's name, so she passed it down. But everyone has always just called me Bee, and I prefer that." She clasps her hands in her lap. "Your situation is slightly different. If you have parents, they're not around to tell us what they prefer to call you, so I think it's safe to say that you can pick your own name. Do you have anything that you like?"
I lift one shoulder in a shrug, then scratch at one of the spikes that pierces through my skin. They are scabbed up, and it itches. "Champion?"
"Um." She considers this. "Maybe 'Champ'?"
"Maybe not." I curl my lip with distaste. It sounds…cheery. I do not like cheery…unless it's her.
"Then give me another suggestion," she says, folding her hands over her knee. "What about…Victor? Short for Victorious?"
"What about 'Ultimate One'?"
She giggles, her hand going to her mouth, and the sound is delightful, even if she is laughing at me. "I wouldn't be able to call you that with a straight face.
Her smile pleases me. "Perhaps you should suggest more names and I will decide if they are worthy."
Bee taps a finger on her chin, thinking. "Well, let me think. I don't think you're a Stan or a Bob and you're certainly not a Junior. You need a unique name that suits you, but also one I won't feel silly calling you." Her eyes go unfocused for a moment, and then she looks at me. "What about Victor? It might suit you."
Victor. As in, a champion. A winner. I like it. I nod. "Prime is good."
Her smile broadens. "I'll just have to remember to call you that. Victor. I think it’s a good name." She gestures at my room. "Speaking of, what do you think of the improvements?"
I shrug.
She notices me leaning against the sink, and her expression becomes thoughtful. "You don't like the changes? Do you miss the cage? Is that it? Did you feel safer there?"
Safer? I snort. "I do not miss the cage, no."
"Then what is it, Victor?"
She is testing my name out, seeing if I like it. Seeing if I will respond to it. I like the sound of it, especially on her lips. Even so, the question she asks me is a little uncomfortable, because I hate showing weakness. Not that this shows weakness, but it shows I don't belong, which is almost as bad. "The bed," I point out, and then deliberately touch one of the spikes on my arms. "It won't work for me."
"Oh." Bee looks over at it, crestfallen. The mattress is a thin, soft pad, the blankets atop equally fragile. I'll shred them the moment I lie down, and then I know they will mock me, or take them away.
I don't want anyone snatching what's mine, even if it's a blanket I cannot use.
The human gets to her feet and moves to the bed, frowning. She picks up the blanket and folds it, moving to the foot of the mattress pad. "There are sturdier blankets," she offers. "I could switch them out. Perhaps a mattress filled with hay might be more efficient than one filled with cotton down?"
"Leave it alone," I growl. "I didn't suggest it because I want you to remove it. It's mine."
