by Ella Ford
Well, it turns out that Kim and Josh had taken this as inspiration, and Kim had answered the question with a resounding “yes!” During a matinee showing of The Minion Movie no less. Classy.
I smiled, and wondered if I would do the same. I’d had limited contact with boys, but I was nowhere near the level of cumslut that Kimberly was. I was more than content to hear her stories and maybe repurpose the imagery for my own use, late at night when I was lying in bed…
I looked up from my phone. Where was Petey? I thought to myself, more curious than concerned at that point. I looked at my watch: 8:20pm. I hadn’t seen the little critter for twenty minutes. Had he slipped by me when I was chatting with Kim? I wondered.
I headed back into the house, calling the dog’s name, but there was no sign of him. I began to feel a little nervous, and a tiny bit guilty, but reassured myself that he was probably just digging up a bone in the garden. I admit, I got most of my ideas about dogs from the funny papers.
I wandered back through the house and into the garden, calling his name every few steps. But there was no sign. I even turned on the excessively bright outside lights, hoping to catch a glimpse of him somewhere, but there was nothing.
I was panicking now, running around, checking every bush and plant. I considered heading to the neighbors houses to see if they had seen him, but the nearest house was a quarter of a mile away and I had no idea who lived there.
After searching for an hour, I finally gave up and came inside, wired with adrenaline and fear. I left the rear door fully open, hoping against hope that Petey would find his way back. But in the back of my mind, I knew with certainty that he would not. The hills in this part of the city were crawling with coyotes.
What on earth was I going to tell Ms. Jones?
---
Felicia Jones sat across the kitchen table from me and stared, her icy glare emotionless and frigid.
“Say that again,” she said in a monotone voice.
I stared down at my hands, frantically wiggling my fingers together with nervous energy. Without looking up, I whispered my reply. “It’s Petey, ma’am, he’s g-gone.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” she replied calmly.
I squirmed in the seat, attempting to make myself as small as possible in an effort to escape the intolerable weight of her stare. “H-he got out in the night, I’m not sure how it happened. I l-looked for him, but he was … gone,” I lied, not wanting her to know that I’d become distracted by Kim’s filthy antics.
“You’re lying to me Melissa. I can smell it like a fart in a car,” she said, raising her voice slightly to emphasise the menace that was implied.
I felt a warm blush creep up my neck and face, and refocused my stare on my nervous hands. “No ma’am, I’m not,” I pleaded, aware that I didn’t sound even slightly credible. I was tired and emotional, having spent the whole night awake and hoping that the mangey mutt would return.
Ms. Jones exhaled through her nose, her nostrils flaring with the rage that appeared to be bubbling beneath the surface of her cool exterior.
“This simply won’t do Melissa, you know how much that dog means to me. Your negligence has upset me deeply,” she droned, not seemingly even slightly upset at all.
I felt genuinely regretful. “I-I’m sorry Ms. Jones.”
She peered at me, scrutinising me with those unfathomably deep eyes of hers and I shrunk back under the scrutiny. Then she looked away and sighed again. “Very well. I need some time to think. Come with me into the living room please Melissa,” she said, making it very clear that she was telling, not asking.
Without thinking, I stood and followed behind her as she walked through the kitchen and into the living room. Her sharp stiletto heels clicked on the floor tiles with each purposeful stride; a harsh contrast to the quick patter of my bare feet on the cold floor as I scampered along behind her.
We reached the living room and she lowered herself into the comfortable armchair, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.
“Kneel down there please Melissa, there’s a good girl,” she said matter of factly, gesturing to a spot to the right of her feet.
I blinked, surprised by the request, and caught myself as I began to follow the order without question. I stopped and stuttered a meek protest. “I-I don’t u-understand …”
She looked up at me from the chair, her smoldering expression making it very clear that she wouldn’t ask me again.
Without thinking further, I lowered myself to my knees on the plush rug, folding my bare legs underneath me and sitting back on my heels. I looked up at her, feeling faintly ridiculous.
“Good, now straighten your back and put your hands on your lap,” she said. I did as I was told, surprised by how readily I obeyed her. I put it down to the emotion of the previous night and tiredness. But there was something else, something deeper. In the turmoil of the moment, I missed something, something in my reaction. It was something I noticed a little later, and the revelation surprised me more than anything else.
When Ms. Jones told me what to do, I felt a thrill. When I followed her orders, I felt a small tingle of satisfaction. I have no idea where this feeling came from, it was certainly not something that I’d considered before. In fact, at the time, I was rebellious and disrespectful - to my parents, my college tutors, even my friends. I’ve wondered since if this was just me acting out, demanding discipline, desperate to find a firm hand to guide me. It is impossible to know. But suffice to say that when I kneeled down at Ms. Jones’ feet that day, I felt something that I hadn’t felt before, but have experienced many times since. The joy of obedience.
Ms. Jones sat back and rested her chin on her hand, staring back at me on the floor before her. “Now, what shall we do about this whole mess?”
“W-we could put up ‘lost dog’ posters?” I offered.
“Please be quiet Melissa. Do not speak unless I expressly ask you to, there’s a good girl.”
I shrank back, head slumping at the unexpected admonishment. Ms. Jones sat forward and reached her hand out, touching her fingertips behind my ears and began playfully scratching there. I sighed as she touched me, and a shiver ran down my spine. I leaned my head to the side, an involuntary response that urged her to continue.
“I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just … I love Petey dearly, and I don’t know what I shall do without him,” she said warmly, continuing to scratch behind my ear. I closed my eyes and nodded briefly, not wanting the touch to end.
“You’re a good girl Melissa, I’m sure that Petey’s disappearance wasn’t your fault,” she continued and I felt a rush of pleasure at her reassurance. “Now, come with me. I’m going to notify the authorities of our dilemma. Hopefully the police will be able to help to find Petey.”
She stood from the chair, removing her hand from me. I began to stand to join her, but as I did so, she turned to me and glared.
“Down Melissa!” she snapped, pointing to the floor. “On your hands and knees!”
I gasped in shock at her sudden outburst. What on earth was happening here? Was she punishing me for losing Petey? This whole situation was suddenly very weird, and I felt myself feeling a little freaked out. Yet despite my apprehension, I found myself lowering my body back down until I was on my hands and knees.
Ms. Jones looked down at me and smiled. “There’s a good girl,” she purred, then patted her thigh and headed off into the kitchen again.
I sighed, still entirely unsure about what was happening here, then I crawled forwards as fast as I could and followed her.
---
Ms. Jones spent the next ten minutes on the phone with the police department. She described Petey and gave over other pieces of information, then finally thanked them for their time and hung up. Throughout the conversation, I remained kneeling at her feet as she sat at the kitchen table. Periodically, she would reach down and stroke my hair or scratch me behind the ear and I found myself lapping up the attention,
against my better judgement.
Finally, she sat back and stared down at me, her face heavy with sadness, the first genuine emotion I’d seen since I’d broken the news of Petey’s disappearance to her.
“Well, they said they’d keep an eye open for him, but it doesn’t sound hopeful. They say that more and more coyotes have been sighted in this part of town recently and …” Her face creased up and tears sprung to her eyes. She sniffed and sobbed a little.
I gazed up at her from my position on the floor, desperate to comfort her, wracked with guilt and shame. I longed to tell her it would be alright, but she’d told me not to speak unless I was told to, and for some reason it seemed deeply important to respect that wish.
Suddenly, I was struck with a curious urge. I leaned forwards and touched my cheek against her calf. Then I tenderly rubbed my face up and down her nylon covered leg. She gasped audibly, then reached down and patted my head.
“Oh Melissa, you’re a good girl really. Yes you are,” she said and I sat back on my heels and looked up at her lovingly. She leaned forwards and her hand fell from my head down my neck to my chest.
I sighed as she teased a single finger down the tight white cotton of my t-shirt across the gentle swell of my breasts. She brushed against my nipple and I realized with a shudder that it was hard and tender, throbbing with anticipation and desire.
I looked up from her hand as she continued to explore my breasts and found her staring at me. There was no hint of the previous sadness; in its place was a hungry stare of pure lust. My heartbeat quickened, and I felt myself breathing heavily, still unsure about what was happening, but unable to persuade my body to remove myself from the situation.
Her hand cupped my breast and squeezed it gently and she finally spoke again. “I think that I’ve thought of a way for you to make it up to me,” she purred.
I gazed up at her quizzically, still not saying a word.
“Until we find Petey, if we ever do,” she said, “you shall be my pet.”
My mind was racing. What on earth was happening here? What did she mean? I pulled back from her hand and stumbled to my feet.
“I-I’m sorry about Petey, I really am. It’s just … this … this is wrong … I’m not like that,” I said half-heartedly, painfully aware of how much I was like that and how right Ms. Jones’ idea seemed to me.
She looked at me blankly. “Then leave. It is your choice. I shan’t even seek remuneration for my lost dog. But I don’t think you will, will you Melissa?” she said with a wry smirk.
I took a step towards the door, then stopped and turned back to her. She cocked her head to one side as she studied me, then she patted her knee lightly, three times.
I looked behind me at the door and my escape from this weird situation. Then I turned and looked back at her. I realized that my indecision was a facade, a futile show of defiance, my final vestige of self-determination. I already knew what I was going to do, as much as Ms. Jones knew what I was going to do. Fighting it was pointless.
I fell down to my knees, then forward onto all fours. Slowly, purposefully, never once breaking eye contact with my new mistress, I padded over to where she sat. Then I paused and looked up at her. She reached down and patted my head again, and this time, it was my turn to purr.
Chapter 3: Training
I’m aware that I’m not really making it clear what was happening on that first day. You probably think that it was a sex thing, that I’d willingly given myself to an insatiable lesbian to have her way with? But I don’t think that’s the truth.
Certainly, I didn’t consider myself a lesbian at the time. I liked guys, I loved cock and I’d never given sex with women a second thought. In truth, I have no idea what Ms. Jones thoughts on the subject, but I suspect that it was similar for her.
My submission to my new mistress was something deeper. A need to be dominated, to allow myself to be controlled. You might think that becoming a human pet is a degrading thing, and you’re probably right. But at the time, it felt unfathomably appealing to me. To be reduced to such a state, to give myself over to another and allow myself to be controlled - that was the appeal. That was what drove me to accept. Of the other stuff, the physical stuff, I barely even considered it. That came later. But not much later.
---
“Take off your clothes,” she commanded. But there was no authority in her voice. For the first time, she seemed uncertain, exploring boundaries in order to assess the limits of our new arrangement.
I looked at her and felt a hint of rebellion creeping into my thoughts. What had previously seemed natural and welcoming, now seemed a little sordid. I’m aware of how weird that sounds, trust me. Yet, somehow, I did as I was told.
I hopped up to my feet and began to undress, noting the look of relief that washed across Ms. Jones’ face. Her tongue flicked out and she licked her lips, studying me as I removed my clothing. First, I pulled my tight white t-shirt over my head, draping it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Next, I unbuttoned my denim shorts and allowed them to fall down my legs. I bent and picked them up, placing them across the t-shirt on the chair.
I turned to face her, standing there in my white, cotton bra and panties, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
“All of it,” she said, this time with renewed confidence.
I sighed and reached behind my back, flicking the bra clasp open and allowing the undergarment to fall forward over my arms. My modest breasts fell free and I became aware of a light breeze on my nipples. Finally, I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my panties and pushed them down my legs. They gathered around my ankles and I stepped to one side, bending to pick them up and place them with the rest of my clothes.
That was the last time I wore clothes in Ms. Jones’ house. The naked rule was established early in our relationship and it is one that I obey without question, like all of my rules. In truth, I don’t miss them. A good pet has no need for modesty, my mistress often says.
Completely naked, I returned to my kneeling position at her feet. She studied me, her eyes falling on my exposed breasts and roaming down to the neat triangle of my bush. I felt a warm flush creeping up my chest as the weight of her gaze caused my heartbeat to quicken.
“Excellent,” she finally said, “but I think there’s one thing missing,” she said, then rose and stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway.
I wondered what was going to happen next. What could possibly happen next to top this strange day? Did she expect me to follow her? My mind was racing with unfamiliar thoughts, strange and exotic and unfathomably compelling. I felt alive with a mix of apprehension and excitement, unable to think clearly on one subject at a time. I forced myself to calm down and concentrated on maintaining my posture in the kneeling pose.
In time, I heard the click of Ms. Jones’ heels on the kitchen floor and she returned to sit before me. “Lift your hair off your neck my dear,” she said and I obeyed without a single word of protest. I gathered up my long, honey-blonde hair and swept it up, holding it at the back of my head.
Ms. Jones slid herself off the chair and squatted down beside me, her face inches from mine. I could smell her perfume and feel the minty warmth of her breath on my face. My flush deepened and I found myself breathing quickly. Then she reached up and held something in front of my face.
I recognized it immediately. It was a dog collar. The black leather circle was rich and expensively made, studded with jewels. It had a buckle on the rear and a silver ring on the front.
I gasped as I realized what she intended to do, a sudden wave of implication washing over me. To be collared like a common household pet, it was the final step in my submission. A gesture that was both symbolic and physical, an acceptance of my position as an object, owned by another.
It should have repulsed me, it should have sent me running out into the street, screaming for help, naked or otherwise. But it didn’t. It thrilled me. The idea of submitting so totally was more attractive to me than I co
uld have ever believed possible.
I leaned forward, offering my neck to her. She reached behind me and fastened the buckle behind my head, twisting the collar so that the ring was at the front, below my chin. Then she sat back and studied me. She smiled, satisfied with her work.
---
After my collaring, my life fell into a strange rhythm. I was to spend my time entirely at the house from now on. I was granted permission to call my parents, to tell them that Ms. Jones was taking an extended business trip and that I would staying at hers for the foreseeable future, taking care of Petey.
In reality, my life became one that was split almost equally between domestic servitude and the strange existence of a human pet.
When Ms. Jones was at work, I was to take care of the house. I cleaned, I dusted, I did her laundry, I cooked her meals. Always naked, always collared, but at least allowed to behave like a person for a change.
But when she came home, I fell into my other role. In her presence, I was not permitted to talk. I had to remain on my knees at all times. If I wanted to use the toilet, I was to kneel outside the bathroom and wait for her to grant me permission to enter. I ate all of my meals from a bowl on the floor in her company, squatting down beside the table and waiting for her permission to eat.
I slept upstairs, sometimes being allowed to curl up at the end of the mistress’ bed, but mostly on a blanket on the floor.
Okay, okay. I get it. I’m very aware of how this sounds. How it sounds like an awful existence, degrading and utterly humiliating. But you’ve got to trust me on this one - this was exactly what I wanted. I felt such contentment in this life, such fulfillment. It may seem strange to you, but people get their kicks from all kinds of things. My kicks happened to involve pretending to be an animal owned by an older woman. Nothing wrong with that. Right?
And yet, it still wasn’t a sex thing. I swear, any physical contact between us was just innocent stroking and scratching. She never asked me to do anything beyond that … At least until the middle of the third week.
