by Paul Blades
To her left, just before the stairs, was an elegant salon with expensive, finely upholstered furniture in a rococo, 18th century style. No one used that room either. Just past the stairs, off of the hallway on the right was Lorenzo’s play room, used most frequently, to Carly’s dismay, and which will be described more fully in due course.
It was Carly’s duty to spend much of her day here at the base of the stairs that curved to the left above her. She was usually brought here about 11 o’clock or so and she would remain until 4 or 4:30 when she was taken upstairs to be prepared for the night’s entertainment. Her torso was covered with a thin, stretchy leotard with brown gravel sized spots and several large, brown, distorted oval patches designed to resemble the coat of a cocker spaniel, but with the floppy ears of a basset hound. Her ears and her nose, a rubbery snout with black nostrils that looked very anatomically correct, for a dog that is, were affixed to her every morning with spirit gum like actors use. The snout was long enough to look dog-like, but short enough not to get in the way when one of the men wanted to force his cock deep into her throat.
The leotard was long sleeved and was met at her wrists by large, padded, black paws on her hands. Every day, the housemistress, a 40ish, tall, thin, misanthropic woman, inappropriately named Angelika, taped her fingers closed, her thumbs pressed into the sides of her hands, with white first aid tape and then taped the snug fitting, padded paws to her wrists in a way that the arms of the leotard covered the ends. Tan Velcro bands went around her ankles and thighs, the bottom of the specially designed leotard covering her pressed back lower legs so that they appeared as one with her thighs. Her knees were padded so that she could move about without destroying them and had little, black attachments that made it look like she had rear paws.
The headpiece that Lorenzo had used on her that first night had been abandoned. In place of it were two prosthetic ears
What to do with the feet was a problem. The ironhanded housemistress, who ruled over both her and the slavish maids that populated the mansion, did her best to hide them by covering them with a light beige gauze. It was the only thing that detracted from her dog like appearance.
Carly wasn’t aware of it, but two weeks ago Lorenzo had had a doctor examine her with a view to having the bottom portion of her legs removed and to do something more permanent about her nose and ears so as to improve her dog-like mien. Carly didn’t know what to make of the grizzled old fellow who had taken such a deep interest in her legs and knees. Afterwards he had made her suck him off like all the others and she quickly forgot about it.
So far, Lorenzo hadn’t made up his mind. She was, on one hand, the best fuck doggie they had ever had, and deserved long term, if not permanent status, but, on the other, he liked to have her stand up tall when he whipped her and he did enjoy the way she wrapped her legs around his thighs when he fucked her in his bed. He had made the appointment for a month from now with the thought that he would decide by then. One thing he knew was that if he did it, that prick Blackjack Jackson would go crazy, and that might be reason enough.
Vincenzo had shaved off all of her red hair the first morning she had awoken here and had allowed it to grow in just long enough so that you could get a good grip while plowing her mouth.
Via several severe whippings and a solid week of tearful training, Vincenzo had made it clear that her job, while she was here in the foyer, was to bark energetically at any guests who happened by and, when they approached her, to entice them to the use of her mouth or, in lieu thereof, one of her other openings, by appropriate whines and a demonstration of her mouth and body’s readiness to receive them. In the beginning she was punished brutally several times for not barking loud enough or not being obsequious and alluring enough to attract clientele.
So now she barked loud and clear any time anyone walked in the door, be it man or woman. She pushed up her breasts and wiggled her rear, turning and displaying it if need be, torn between the feelings of humiliation and shame it brought her and her rabid fear of retribution should she falter any way in her duty.
It was lucky for her that the servants and deliverymen all used the back door and had been forbidden to touch her. It was mostly Lorenzo’s men when they came to visit or one or more of the important governmental officials from Monterrey who stopped by, intrigued by the description of the delightful human she-bitch that Lorenzo had had trained and anxious to try her out. Some of them were women who paused long enough to stroke her into orgasm for their amusement or requested and received permission to take her up to one of the bedrooms for an hour or so.
She hadn’t spoken nary a single word since the night she arrived and had begged her maestro to stop beating her. Vincenzo had cured her of that the very next morning.
It had been difficult to get any sleep that night in the tiny cage Lorenzo had stuffed her into. She was so terrified about what her life was going to be like that her mind buzzed a million miles per hour. The cage was so small that her bent up knees brushed against her chin. She couldn’t really lean back because her hands were joined behind her. The top of her head pressed against the bars above. Her toes were jammed up at the front of the cage, the small of her back pressing her joined hands against the rear, and her heavy breasts were compressed hard against her thighs, making it difficult to take a deep breath.
After sobbing for about an hour, off and on, Lorenzo’s raucous snoring as a background and a reminder of the vast difference between their relative statuses, she had finally fallen into a fitful slumber. She would awake every little while as her cramped body complained. It would take her a few seconds to remember where she was and then she would begin to cry again until she finally managed to doze off.
Once the early morning light came stealthily through the windows, waking her, the objects of the room, during the night shrouded in darkness, began to take shape again. By craning her neck she could see to her left the place where Lorenzo had whipped her, the chain dangling there expectantly. The long bull’s pizzle was lying there in an undulating curl like vicious snake getting ready to pounce. The empty tequila bottle was nearby still and lifeless, its open neck pointing at her accusingly. Lorenzo’s clothes were strewn around the room and lying at awkward angles like victims of a massacre. Most of all, she could see the implacable, shiny brass rods of the cage all around her.
She waited and waited and waited for the morning to advance far enough so that, no matter else what the day had in store for her, at least she could be released. From outside the window she could hear birds chirping and singing. From somewhere not too close she heard the faint sound of a small motor like a lawnmower or a power saw or something. At one point someone tapped lightly on the door several times, but getting no response went away.
Lorenzo’s deep snores had given way to light ones, but were audible enough to be a constant reminder of his looming presence. All she could think of was that the man so comfortably asleep on the bed behind her, that sadistic, callous, cruel, sociopathic man, had absolute, unrestrained and untrammeled power over her. She was so frightened that her belly was sour and she felt chills going up and down her spine. There was a fierce sensation of the colossal unfairness of it. What had she ever done? What right did they have to do this to her? And it seemed all so unreal. A little under a week ago, she had had her own life, a loving boyfriend, a good job, an apartment of her own that she could stretch out and live freely in. She had a cat and a bed of flowers in her yard.
She had been awake for probably more than 2 dismal, unhappy, anxiety filled hours when a small, brightly colored, yellow and orange bird hopped up on the unscreened windowsill. There was nothing to stop it from flying into the room. It kept cocking its tiny head back and forth, looking at her with one eye and then the other. “Please help me,” she thought. “Please! Please! Please!” It started her crying again. Not sobbing, but a lonely, quiet, gentle crying, although the tears flowed freely from her eyes.
The bird took a little hop and jumped up on the edge of the
window so that it was almost halfway into the room. For a moment it seemed to Carly that it had heard her prayer. But then she realized that if the bird flew into the room Lorenzo, or his cruel henchman Vincenzo, would kill or capture it. She couldn’t bear the thought of watching while one of the men battered at it with a stick or one of the whips, disabling it and then crushing the life out of it. Or capturing it and turning it into just another forlorn prisoner like her in its own little, confining brass prison.
“Go away! Go away!” she thought. “Don’t come in! Don’t! Don’t!” She tried to make little shooing gestures with her head, but she could barely move it. She had the urge to issue the loudest growl she could manage in order to scare it away, but she knew that with her gagged mouth she was capable of producing nothing much louder than a murmur. She was even willing to bark at it, “Yarp! Yarp! Yarp! Yarp!” like a real dog would, but she couldn’t even manage that.
Just then, Lorenzo issued a loud groan. She heard him stirring in the sheets behind her. The bird turned to look at him, did a little hop, took a last look at her and flew away. Carly began to sob again.
Lorenzo issue another groan, this one louder. A few moments later she heard him getting up from the bed. She tried to quell her sobs, but the futile effort just caused them to intensify. Lorenzo stumbled to the foot of the bed. She looked up at him fearfully. He looked down at her. Suddenly, rage burst out across his face.
“¡Silencio!” he yelled at her. And when she didn’t, he lunged forward and grabbed the bullwhip off of the floor. He slashed it viciously against the front of the tiny cage once, twice, three times. “¡Silencio!” he bellowed again.
Carly became frantic with terror. Her body shuddered at each blow. The sound of the flail striking the metal so close to her was shocking, a reminder of the excruciating pain it could cause. She clenched her teeth firmly against the gag in her mouth and strained herself to silence. She jammed her eyes closed and shouted inwardly, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!”
Miraculously, she was able to get a hold of herself although she was trembling with fear and suffused with self-sorrow and pity. She opened her eyes again. Lorenzo was leering at her like a madman. He held her gaze for a moment and then his face softened. “Es bueno,” he said. He tossed the whip to the floor and turned away.
She heard him pissing and then heard the shower. The sound of the water made her bladder ache, but knowing that peeing in her cage would be an offense worthy of unimaginable punishments, she held it until, for a while at least, the urge disappeared.
Lorenzo emerged from the shower after a while and reentered the room drying his muscular, heavily tattooed body off with a broad, fluffy, bright white towel. He was whistling some song. He went to the dresser in front of her and pulled out some undershorts and white socks. He passed back behind her, tossing the towel on the floor. He continued to whistle lightly, humming a few bars here and there and singing an occasional Spanish phrase as he dressed. Carly kept waiting fretfully for the moment when he would pull her out of her cage, but, walking back and forth in the room, he hardly took notice of her. She heard him behind her stomping on his boots and then he walked past her to the door. Without looking back, he exited.
Carly didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed. Him leaving meant that she would have to spend untold more time in her cramped confinement. But at least she wasn’t being tortured or used.
She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. It lasted for a while, and then something would spring up inside her and her blood would run cold again. She had thought she would welcome the silence of the room, but the lack of any noise except the occasional remote tweet or chirp of a bird, made her feel more and more lonely and powerless. She tried to keep her eyes closed so she wouldn’t have to look around the room and be reminded of her tiny confinement and the implements of her abuse, but she couldn’t seem to do it. She kept looking at the door knowing that sooner or later someone would come through it. That that someone might be Vincenzo, who had frightened her so much last night, made her stomach turn and her body ache.
Eventually, about an hour or so later, the door did open. Carly’s heart skipped a beat. But it wasn’t Vincenzo. It was two young girls, black haired and brown skinned, wearing long, colorful, frilly shirtwaist dresses. One was slightly taller and a little heavier than the other. They both had their long, gleaming black hair in ponytails. They both wore brown leather collars around their necks and matching bracelets around their wrists and ankles. They were barefoot.
After they closed the door behind them, they stood there a second taking in the sight of her. At first their faces were blank, but then the smaller one began to giggle and the other one followed suit. The smaller one approached her. She was pretty, maybe a little over 18. She leaned over the cage and said in a sweet voice, “¿Ladra, perrita? ¿Ladra, por favor?” And then she laughed. Her face was inches away from the cage, her big, brown eyes peering in. The taller one came over to join her and said something quickly in Spanish. The smaller one said something back and then rapped on the bars to the cage with her knuckles. “¿Ladra, perrita, por favor?” she repeated.
A well of sadness and shame sprung open inside Carly. She had forgotten about the dog’s ears that she wore. How could these girls be so cruel? By the confinements on their bodies it was clear that they were prisoners here too. But everyone likes to feel that someone is below them in status and the girls seemed to be relieved to find one. The taller one, she was big breasted and had a fuller face, tugged on the sleeve of the other one and said something. The other girl shook her off. She repeated her entreaty for Carly to bark for her. No way was she ever going to do it, no matter how long the girl stood there asking or how sweetly she made the request.
The smaller girl seemed to get annoyed. She stepped back and stumbled over the whip that was on the floor. She smiled and picked it up. She dangled it over Carly’s cage, running it across the bars all the while saying something ominous sounding. The taller girl grew tired of the game and stepped away. She started to pick up Lorenzo’s clothes from the floor. The smaller one kept running the whip over the cage, making a rattling sound against its bars that made Carly wince, but then, finally, grew tired of it too.
Carly wallowed in misery as the girls cleaned up the room. They stripped the bed. One of them went into the bathroom to clean while the other took a vacuum out of the closet and went to work on the rug. They put the empty bottle of tequila into a trash bag. They polished all the furniture. The taller one came over to the cage and wiped down all the bars, her eyes averted from Carly’s. They cleaned and closed the windows and opened the vents for the air conditioning.
When they had remade the bed and were finished, the smaller one came back over to the cage as they were getting ready to go. She bent over and rapped on the bars to the cage again and said, pleadingly, “¿Ladra, perrita, por favor?” The taller one was standing by and watching. The smaller one’s face seemed so forlorn and sad, something just came over her. Stifling a sob, Carly murmured as loud as she could, “Yarp!” The sound barely escaped her gag.
The young girls’ faces lit up with glee and they burst out laughing. The smaller one said, when she finished, “Gracias, perrita,” in the most kindest way. Then the girls, holding hands, holding the soiled sheets and clothes in their others, turned and left the room.
The same or other girls, in different combinations, came in every morning to clean up. Word must have gotten around since they almost always asked her to bark for them, and, eventually, to their glee, Carly almost always, finally, complied. A few weeks later, one night, when Carly was ensconced in her little cage awaiting her maestro’s pleasure, Lorenzo dragged the smaller maid into the bedroom. He was drunker than usual. He tore off her clothes, affixed her to the dangling chain and whipped her viciously, making her scream and sob. Afterwards, he fucked her brutally on the bed. He left her gagged and hogtied in the middle of the room and went off to sleep. She was still there in the morning, naked and bou
nd, her eyes brimming with tears, when Carly awoke. After that, realizing that their lives were no bed of roses either, Carly didn’t feel so bad giving the girls a little amusement.
It was about a half hour later when Vincenzo came in. He was dressed as he had been last night with his black toreador jacket and finely creased black pants. In his left hand he held a tapered switch. Without ceremony, he unlocked her cage and urged her out. Tentatively, Carly edged herself out, casting fearful looks up at him and at his whip. She remembered what he had said about excruciating punishments and that Lorenzo had promised her that there would be a retribution for begging for mercy while being whipped last night.
Once she was fully out, he leaned down and released her hands from behind her back and removed her gag. He gave her a moment to stretch out her arms and legs before ordering her, “Manos y rodillas.” Hands and knees. She rose to the proscribed posture and he said, “Sigueme.”
Carly didn’t know the word, but as Vincenzo stepped away towards the door, she figured out what it meant. She followed him to the door. He opened it and let her pass him into the hallway. She waited out there obediently while he stepped out. He paused for a moment, towering over her. “No toque,” he told her sternly, knocking on the door with a knuckle. “Never touch a door, comprende?”
“Si, maestro,” she answered glumly.
“Tu maestro ha ordenado no hables jamas,” he said, sternly. “No talking for you anymore. Maestro’s orders. ¡Nunca! Never! From now on you answer una ladra para sí, dos ladras para no. One bark for yes. Two barks for no. ¿Entiende?”
