With a sigh, I surrender. I start to lap up the water like a dog. My tongue makes the water ripple, but it feels good. It tastes wonderful. Even though this is just tepid tap water, it tastes delicious.
For the next minute or two, Michael holds my head in place. He's not about to let me go. And when he finally does release me, some of the water dribbles down my chin.
"Good girl," he says. "Now finish your bowl of dog food, dog. There are still a few pieces left."
"I pulled my arms over my chest, I get up onto my haunches, and I stop. Shaking my head, I make it clear that I'm not going to cooperate.
"You don't want to eat? Is that right?" I shake my head again. Actually speaking seems to invite punishment. Then again, so does defiance, but I don't care.
"Okay."
What? Did I just win? Michael reaches down, he picks up the ball. He stands back, and he looks down at me. "Since you refuse to eat like a good little puppy, we’re going to play a game. Every time you succeed, you're going to be rewarded. Every time you fail, you're going to be punished."
"I don't want to play a game."
"Too bad," he tells me.
"What kind of game?" I ask, mostly because I don't see any other choice.
"I'm going to throw the little puffs in the air, you're going to catch them in your mouth. Every time you fail or make a mistake, I'm going to have to punish you. You understand, Princess?”
I hate it when he calls me that. But he knows this. That's why he's laughing at me!
He plucks one of the little puffs of dog food from the bowl, and he tosses it forward. I watch it sail across the air, and I just can't bring myself to try to grab it with my mouth. I'm better than this. I'm better than that!
The little puff bounces off the tip of my nose, and it's the floor. Still, I'm as motionless as a statue.
His hand shoots out, he grabs me by the nape of my neck, and he forces my face down into the artificial turf. I can smell the faux grass. Aromas from chemicals and dust fills my nostrils.
Then his hand grips my ass. He holds me tight, and I know better than to struggle. After all, with just two words, he can force me to relax. I hate that, but it's true.
"You are going to be a good girl for me," Michael promises. This time, he's not asking a question. Oh no, this is a man showing a girl what she is going to do. I can fight it, and I can hate it, but it's going to happen one way or another.
As the tension mounts within my body, he puts his hand to the curves of my ass. He pulls back, and he swings down with his palm.
The sound claps against my eardrums. I flinch, gasping.
Damn it. A spanking shouldn't hurt, not like this, yet the pain flares through my body. It flashes along my buttocks, through my sides. And that was only the first one. He grabs my ass, pinching. He strokes me, caressing me, taunting me.
And then, his hand pulls back, and I know what Michael is about to do. Yet that awareness can’t save me.
He smacks his hand down against my buttocks. But at this point, he doesn't savor the spanking. Instead, he let loose a flurry. His hand slides down again and again. Rapid shots reverberate through my skin, and I howl out.
I whimper. I even try barking. "Arf, arf!” I cry out, hoping for mercy.
That doesn't do it.
He punishes me for long minutes. After just a couple of strikes, I can no longer keep track. My brain blanks; everything turns to a haze of fuzzy pain and stinging. But then, he finishes with me.
He rolls me onto my side, and he looks down into my eyes. "I can spank you some more, or I can have some fun with your body. What would you prefer, Princess?"
No…
I understand exactly what he's offering me. I can take more spankings, or I can be used as a human sex toy. After all, if I'm just an animal, then I don't have any rights. And yes, I should probably be feeling lucky that he gives me any choice at all. This is going to be my decision, which makes it worse.
If I get to choose, then I'm complicit. If I get to decide, then he can always throw that back in my face.
His hand drifts down toward my opening. He strokes my crevice, once, twice…
"Pick one or you get both," he tells me.
"Use me," I say.
"What do you want me to do?"
As he strokes me, I realize something else. After that spanking, I'm hot and wet. I'm practically dripping. My pussy is soaked, and he could easily finger me, but he doesn't. No, he continues to light his digits along my opening, just outside. He keeps me sensitive to make me desperate.
"What do you want me to do?" Michael is mocking me. He sounds patient, yet he’s simply reveling in my helplessness. Powerless, down on the artificial turf, I'm on my back, my hands trapped in those mitts, my legs spread.
"Fuck me?”
“Beg.”
Beg? What?
Theoretically, I understand the word, but I don't comprehend what he really wants. "Go ahead and beg like a dog. Show me that you're a dog, Princess. You have a dog's name and the dog's collar. You can do it. I know you can."
Blushing bright once again, I get up on my haunches. He is still kneeling right there, looking at me. He's waiting, perhaps studying me for some sign of rebellion or defiance. And yet, this time I don't know what I'm doing.
One thing is certain. I'm not going to fight him, not now.
I look down for a moment at my spread knees. My pussy practically glistens with my excitement. I really am eager, just as I'm hoping he will use me and allow me an orgasm. I need one. I need one badly.
"Whimper."
Holding up my leather dog paws, I whimper. “Hmmmm! Hmmmm!” I tilt my head to the side, and I practically wiggle with desperation. My body language conveys one thing: need. I need him to touch me. I need him to fondle me and to use me. I need him to treat me like his own private pitch.
"Turn around. Stay on your hands and knees."
Swallowing, I'm not sure what to do. If I turn around, that might be an invitation for another spanking. Even so, something inside of me tightens up, and I know that I can't resist him. I can't actually try to fight, so I find myself down on my hands and knees, exactly the way he wants.
I hear a zipper slide down. Then he's behind me, he grabs my ass, and he smacks me one more time. Even so, I don't move. I remain in place like a good little dog. And then he pushes forward, penetrating me with his shaft.
And just like that, this clinical psychologist begins to fuck me. He probably has a theoretical justification for why he's doing it. At this moment, all I can think about is the pounding of my heart, the panting of my lungs, and the pulsating pleasures racing from my pussy.
Oh, he feels wonderful. As he thrusts back and pushes forward, working his member deeper and deeper into my body, I know that I belong to him. At this moment, I can feel the weight of the collar. I know that my hands are useless.
"There's a good dog. Yes, you're a very good dog. You know your place, don't you?" As though I need even more training, he puts his hand on the back of my head, and he shoves my face down into the fake grass. "Bow down, dog. Sit for your owner. Sit for your Master."
I can answer him with just one sound, my heavy breathing. I'm gasping, doing my best to keep up. With every thrust, every touch of friction and movement, my body responds.
Those pulsations speed up, quickening until I am pushed over the edge. I come, and my pussy squeezes around his shaft. Even so, he holds out for a few more seconds, perhaps a full minute, and then he finishes with me. He comes hard, thrusting deeper and faster. He takes me, and when he pulls out, I can barely think. I fall down on my side, and I don't even think about what happens when I close my eyes.
I don't wake up, not entirely.
I must understand that something is wrong. After all, I can't move my arms or legs. At first, everything is dark, at least until I remember to crack my eyelids open. Peering about, I see a woman's face. She has kind eyes even though there is a mask covering her nose and mouth. She has on a surgical gown.
She stands to my right. Michael stands to my left. "Princess, can you be a good doggie for us? Can you promise that you're going to be a good little animal? Can you promise us that you're not going to try to escape or get away?"
Technically, I should lie. Even though I understand this, I'm too groggy. Or maybe they have already hooked me up to an IV. Either way, I shake my head.
"Oh, that's a shame," Michael says, shaking his head. "Proceed with the first phase."
Someone else stands above me. A mask is placed over my mouth, and I realize that they are going to shove me back down into the darkness. They're going to knock me out!
Panic fueled adrenaline pumps through my veins. For a few seconds, it manages to keep me awake. I use that time to the best of my ability, yanking and pulling as hard as I can on the restraints wrapped around my wrists and ankles.
Thoroughly strapped down, I just can't get up. I can't even lift my torso, let alone roll off of that operating table.
Everyone waits for me, patiently confident that I'm going to succumb to the chemicals flowing into the mask.
"Sweetie, this will be a lot easier if you settle down. Just count with me. Count backwards from one hundred.” The nurse might sound nice, but I still don't respond. I pull and twitch, struggling with every ounce of power I can push into my limbs.
It isn't nearly enough.
"One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight…” The numbers ticked down, and my eyelids get so heavy. Without realizing it, I close them, and then I disappear into dreams altogether.
When I wake up, there is a voice talking. "In other news, the NASDAQ rose by more than fifteen points today. The S&P 500 didn't do so well…” Lifting my head, I blink my eyes open. I don't know where I am, but I know that I'm on a couch. My head is on a lap, and someone is touching me. I can feel his hands move along the top of my head.
For a moment, I think that this is going to be my chance. I need to jump up, to run off. After all, there aren’t any restraints holding my wrists or ankles together.
Of course, when I attempt to use my hands, to flex my fingers, I feel the heavy padding of the mittens. Damn it. Michael never let me out of those stupid things.
That gentle yet firm touch moves down the curves of my head toward the back of my neck. Those caresses slide along my collar, down to my naked back, over my breasts, down toward my tummy.
What should I do?
I'm on the couch, draped over a lap, just like a…
No, I can't think of it. I won't acknowledge the fact that I'm here like some kind of animal, a pet.
Swallowing, I furtively glance around the room. It looks like I'm in the living room of some apartment. Off to the side, there is a window. I can make out a couple of buildings, which means that were still in the city. We are also very high up. What is this, a condominium?
"I know you're awake, Princess." I hear the voice, and a shot of anger runs through my body. It feels like someone jolts me with hot frustration because that voice is Michael's.
Immediately, I roll off his lap, and I drop down onto my knees. I look up at him, only he reaches down, stroking my cheek. "Don't you try to get away. We already know what happens when you try to escape, don’t we?"
Glowering back at him, I remember the surgery. Licking my lips, I glance down at the rest of my body. Nothing seems different. "What did you do? Did you put another implant in me?"
"No, the first one is perfectly sufficient for controlling you," he says.
"Then what did you do?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
Practically vibrating with frustration, I lift my paws, only to be pinned down against the carpet. "What did you do? Tell me!" I know that I sound pitiful, but I don't even care.
"If you really want to know, you'll have to crawl over here and put your chin on my knee."
After that, he doesn't say anything else. I look around, almost like I'm worried that someone will witness this particular indignity. But before I know it, I'm crawling forward, my weight on my knees and hands.
I hate doing it, but I lift my chin, and I lightly press it down against his knee, just the way he wants. And then he starts stroking the top of my head again. Only after a few gentle caresses, he moves his fingertips up for something else, something that feels strange.
"Do you like that? Do you like it when I rub your ears?"
Confused, I peer up at him. This doesn't make any sense. Why do I feel his touch? He isn't stroking my hair or my scalp.
He's rubbing something else. I lift my hands, and I push my wrists against my ears. They're still there, but now I have another set.
I have a set of dog ears! They're hanging from the top of my head. They’re floppy, and I back up, shaking my head because I can't believe it. I keep searching for some sign that this isn't really happening. But when I turn my head left and right, I sense those flaps flop back and forth…
Before I know it, I'm dashing across the floor. I rush over to one of the large windows, and then I can see the faint outline of my reflection. More importantly, I see the newly attached doggy ears poking out from between my strands of hair.
Michael walks up behind me. Standing there, looking more like a giant than an actual man, he chuckles. He's laughing at me!
"You look cute," Michael comments. He makes this sound normal.
"What, what did you do to me?"
"We improved you," he says. He reaches down, touching the underside of my chin. He forces me to look up into his face. "We made you better."
"I look like a freak!"
"No," he says. "You look like a dog."
"Undo it. Undo it right now!" Tears simmer at the corners of my eyes. I can't believe that I'm begging this man for a favor, but I don't know what else to do.
He crouches in front of me, and for a moment, he almost seems sympathetic. Maybe he actually does feel bad for me. Michael then reaches out, and he begins to pet my puppy ears. He strokes them with his fingers and the pads of his thumbs.
"Calm down. This isn't so bad. You know it's not. You're just a little puppy girl. You're going to get used to this. Yes, you are."
He's petting me, softly caressing my puppy ears. Somehow, it feels…good. More than good, it feels wonderful. My eyes roll back, my eyelids slide down, and I began to relax. Before I know it, I'm down on my stomach, simply savoring the feel of his touch.
"Yes, you have little puppy ears now. But that just means that you're going to be a good dog for me, doesn't it?"
He continues to pet one of my ears before moving his other hand down along my hair, to the back of my neck. He lightly scratches my skin, and those conflicting sensations make me shiver with pleasure.
This time, it isn't sexual. It's something else. A sense of happy calmness spreads over me. Deep down, I know that I should fight this. I should be battling his influence with every ounce of strength I possess, but I can't do it. It's too easy to simply relax.
Before long, I feel boneless. My limbs feel like jelly, and he continues to touch me. He continues to pet me. Like an addict, I'm trapped in a stupor, and I don't even mind.
"Would you like more petting?"
"Yes…” Right now, I think I'm whispering, but I can't be entirely certain. Maybe that was just a thought.
Apparently not because he’s satisfied. He reaches down, and he attaches something to the back of my collar. Then I feel the nylon swish and sway; it’s the leash again. He gently pulls on it, guiding me back up onto my knees and palms.
"Let's go for a walk," he says.
Michael escorts me through the building. We go down a long hallway to an elevator. The doors open with a swish, and I know that I should be studying the layout, learning as much as I can about my surroundings, but I don't. Instead, I scamper after this man. My head is down, but I'm focused on my newly attached ears.
It's so strange.
For years—for all of my life—I’ve known my body. With a thought, I can concentrate on my toes or my knees or my lips. I ca
n get those sensations. But now, there's a new set of impulses. I have dog ears.
Michael is actually turning me into a canine. Worse, this doesn't have to be the last modification he plans on making to my body. What if he decides to give me a tale? What if he comes up with something else?
My heart pitter-patters at the idea.
No, that's not going to happen. Janet is going to come here, she is going to save me, and then I will be able to make him pay for this. He will be punished for every single indignity he has thrown on me.
The notion of revenge should make me feel better. It should grant me a modicum of strength. It doesn't.
When the elevator’s doors open again, I see out into that same living room from before. Apparently, Michael is in control of this entire building. He has a floor where he can train me, and he has a condo where he can relax while I'm sedated or asleep or locked in my cage.
"Come on, Princess." He pulls on my leash. It isn't a painful sensation, but I know better than to resist. Crawling forward, I follow this man as best I can. He takes a seat on the couch, and I stay there on the floor.
"Good girl. You know that puppies aren't allowed on the furniture without permission, don't you? Yes, you do. That's because you're a smart little puppy girl."
This time, I don't shake my head, I don't growl, and I don't argue. In fact, I simply stay there, my gaze directed down toward his feet.
He slaps one of the cushions. "Up, Princess. Up on the couch."
I find myself moving again, crawling up onto the furniture. He puts his hand on the top of my head, guiding my chin down to his lap. "I'm going to watch TV, I’m going to pet you, and you're going to relax like a good girl."
The fact that he is willing to tell me exactly what I'm going to do should grant me another surge of anger. It doesn't. Instead, he starts stroking and playing with my ears, and I settle down almost instantly. He has the TV on, and I can hear the newscasters droning on about different parts of the world, yet none of that seems important to me. In fact, those words fade to white noise.
Even before Michael caught me, I never had much use for the news. If it didn't involve celebrity gossip or any of my friends or frenemies, then I just didn't care.
Human Animals Page 17
