My Life as His Bitch Ch. 02byBeckyGellan©
Max did go to the wedding with me, and the next time my wrists sported the telltale indentations of handcuffs - very soon after our first meeting - it was his doing. Six months later we were living in a detached bungalow in the green borders of North London. His elderly grandmother had died and rather than sell her home he decided to refurbish it and move in.
Now, six months hence, almost a year after our first meeting I'm laying face-down and handcuffed on his bed, breathing deeply with my nose nuzzling the bedding in search of his scent. But Friday was the cleaner's day and the bedclothes were freshly laundered. I wait quietly. I don't have any choice, lest I be punished for disturbing him.
I heard his footfalls coming down the corridor, and tried to arrange my body to look at neat as possible. I heard some items drop lightly onto the bed. Then he climbed on top of me, his knees astride me, sitting on my thighs. Hopelessly trapped by steel cuffs and his muscular body, I surrendered myself. My transformation was about to begin.
I made my hands into fists, and one at a time he fitted suede bags over them, Tying the drawstrings closed on my wrists so that my hands would retain their fist shape.
He put similar suede coverings on my feet, wrapping the leather cord drawstrings several times around my ankles. These had half-inch padded soles, and buried in the padding were sharp tacks. If I ever put weight on them the tacks would be driven into the soles of my feet. These shoes were definitely not made for walking.
Next came a heavy studded leather dog collar. Designed for a rottweiler or similar, there was nothing cute about it. He buckled firmly around my neck, then padlocked it. I made a little whimpering sound at the moment of the click. It signified that I was a possession, just another item on his keyring along with his car and his motorcycle.
He gripped my hair and pulled back my head. My mouth was wide open to receive the bone gag, a dog's toy made of rubber and shaped like a large bone. He'd modified it so each end of the bone had a hole threaded with leather cords. He tied the cords at the back of my head, leaving the bone wedged into my mouth.
He climbed off me and the bed to prepare the next item. "Spread your legs!"
I complied, pointing my toes to where I imagined the bedposts were. The lubricant was cool and pleasant around my anus. He rubbed the tip of the butt plug around the opening, teasing and stimulating me, readying me for its insertion. After a moment of pressure the plug went in. I felt my anal ring closing around the plug's narrow waistline. The butt plug was fitted with a curved tail and I could feel the fur against my thighs.
"Good girl!" said Max, and I detected a slight raggedness in his breath. He attached a leash to the front of my collar and tugged. "Up. Sit on the edge of the bed!"
I did as instructed, careful not to press my feet against the floor. I glanced briefly up at him, savouring the intense expression on his face. The expression of desire!
Then he opened a tube of black greasepaint and, using a finger, carefully smeared in on my nose. He concentrated, and I sat still as good puppy should. I scarcely ever noticed my nose normally, but painted black it loomed absurdly large and ever-present in my peripheral vision. Max wasn't done with the paint yet. He rubbed a bright red greasepaint liberally on my labia and clit hood.
I had become his puppy, and because dogs don't wear handcuffs, he removed them.
"Get in the cage," he said in a voice quiet yet firm. The cage - my cage - was made of stainless steel mesh wire, built for transporting a large dog. I crawled in and heard the door clang closed, even before I'd turned to face him. He padlocked the cage door, trapping me like a wild animal. Then he left, closing the bedroom door behind him. All I could do was curl up on the padded floor of the cage and try to get comfortable.
I soon settled down. The tail-plug in my anus and the rubber bone between my teeth were regular fixtures, so to speak. I wasn't worried by them, even if I could hardly forget them. I wiped the drool from my mouth on my bare arm. My labia, coated with red gunk began to itch as the greasepaint dried a little, but I resisted the temptation to rub.
Max went back to his computer, and worked in his preferred silence, although I had no doubt he was listening any noise I might make on the baby-monitor.
The doorbell rung just as I was feeling sleepy. I became instantly alert, listening for signs of conversation.
Max occasionally had people dropping by, but I was always kept out of sight, keeping perfectly still, so that visitors were unaware of this girl-dog just yards away from them. The idea that somebody might see me as a dog in a cage was terrifying. Max's excuse that I was sleeping seemed to satisfy anyone who cared to ask after me.
I could faintly hear the visitors talking, and deduced from their tone of voice that it was a business call, another website client. Knowing the visitors were strangers helped me relax. I doubted they even knew I existed.
I was wrong. Ten minutes after their arrival the bedroom door opened. It was Max.
"Come bitch, there's some people I want you to meet."
He opened the cage door and had to drag me out by my collar. I protested, shaking my head, and pleading with him not to do it. The fact that I was a part-time dog was our little secret and I was desperate to keep it that way. He angrily whipped my bare ass with the leather leash handle until I submitted to his control.
I held them at breast height and turned them over so he could check for red greasepaint. Black from my nose was okay, within reason, but red on paws meant trouble. He even had a little rhyme: "Red on the paws, red from the tawse." I didn't mind a spanking, but the tawse went beyond my pain threshold.
My paws were clean except for a small smudge of black where I'd accidently brushed my nose. It was so hard not to touch myself at first but the tawse proved to be a good teacher and I learnt to keep my hands well away from my sex, even when the drying greasepaint tickled me mercilessly.
Max led me into his office to commence my humiliation.
Seated around Max's large flat screen monitor were a man and a woman. He, lean and fit with cropped hair, and gay to judge by his manner. She, with purple streaked hair, gothic makeup and leather and latex clothing was... I didn't know what she was. They didn't look like lovers, perhaps business partners I thought.
"She's cute. What's her name?" The goth-woman asked.
"Bitch," said Max. He made me shake paws with gothwoman and the man, but looked downwards, not wanting to make eye contact. "She's shy with strangers."
That was an understatement. More than shy, I felt humiliated and betrayed; angry with Max for not preparing me for this.
"Where did you get her from?" Gothwoman demanded, as if she could just go to a shop and get her own.
"She kept talking about getting a dog, but I wasn't so keen. The barking, the smell, and all that responsibility. So I found a compromise..."
Max's guests laughed at his joke, and at my expense.
My balled-up fist was still in gothwoman's hands as she admired the suede coverings. "Nice paws. Where are they from?"
"I designed them, and she made them. They're padded in the part she leans on. Those on her feet have a foam rubber sole inside. If she puts any pressure on it, the tacks inside the rubber will dig into her feet. It works pretty well." Max modestly admitted.
"She's gorgeous. Lovely body." Gothwoman seemed very interested in me. "Does she like bondage?"
Max chuckled. "A real bondage whore," he said unnecessarily. "The bitch-frame, the leash, hog-ties, deer-ties, the cage. All the usual doggy things."
"Quite right, frames are the best thing for dogs, and cages of course," Gothwoman agreed.
Max excused himself and returned carrying my bitch-frame from my bedroom. He put in on the carpeted office floor and led me by the leash so that I was astride it and facing away from his visitors.
The bitch-frame was constructed of heavy-duty iron and shaped like the letter 'I'. Its purpose was to hold a bitch like me in a secure doggy position for punishment, for sexual acts, or perhaps just for restraint. At the four extreme points of the 'I' shaped frame were the straps for holding my wrists and ankles. Max buckled them around my four paws, holding me in the lowest position. That meant my elbows were resting on the floor so the highest point of my body was my bare ass. A metal bar rose upwards from the frame with an iron half-circle on top. It was a neck support, although perhaps clamp would be a better description.. The circle became complete when I rested my neck in it, and had a strap passed over the back of my neck and tightly buckled closed. If I was going to resist I had missed my chance. Escape from the frame was impossible. Believe me, I've tried.
The office went quiet. I think they were all looking at me, enjoying the sight of someone reduced to such a lowly position. "Is she a full time dog?" Gothwoman asked.
Max laughed. "No, she works during the week, an accounts manager or something. Then she's my Bitch for a night and a day every weekend. Except this weekend is a double dose - Friday through to Sunday because I'm away next weekend and won't be able to supervise her. Wouldn't want her to feel neglected!"
Gothwoman was quick-witted, I'll grant her that. "Why don't you put her in kennels next weekend?"
Max laughed, thinking she was joking, but she wasn't. She took over the computer, and logged into a website. Although I faced away from them I could see the screen reflected in the polished glass cabinet doors in front of me.
"Ah, here it is!"
"It looks more like a palace." Max observed, upon seeing the main facade of the building.
"It's called Hardknott Hall. Just your run-of-the-mill stately home actually. It's actually open to the public for several weeks of the year, just to secure some public funding. The kennel is in a walled garden at the back." She clicked on a button and waited for the media player to load. "This is it."
From the reflection of the screen I could make out a green lawn with several people on it. The picture slowly zoomed in on one of them and I saw a woman who looked rather like me - naked and fixed onto a frame not unlike my own. There must have been six other people similarly secured and scattered across the lawn, none closer than ten metres to any other.
"The poor things in their bitch frames get very agitated," Gothwoman said with obvious relish, "waiting for their dogs to arrived."
I noticed that some of them were already engaged - three women were being vigorously humped by dogs of various breeds.
Gothwoman delighted in explaining: "Each woman is allocated a dog which is tethered to her frame by a long leash. The dog can move around the frame a little, but can't stray far enough to interfere with other dogs or women. That's how they keep up the level of excitement without it becoming chaotic."
I watched in horrified fascination, a feeling that I hoped Max shared. He'd told me before that bestiality wasn't his thing, but I worried he might change his mind upon seeing this.
"You see the woman on the right being taken by the Alsatian? She's highly respected barrister at the law courts. Divorced, with grown-up kids. Nobody would ever guess she spends one weekend every month in the kennels. Most of the bitches wear pigskins on their backs to prevent the damage of dog claws. But not her, she likes the feel of the cuts and scratches the dogs make on her."
Max shook his head in disbelief. "And Monday morning she's back in the courtroom?"
"Exactly! With a scratched and scabby back as an intimate reminder of her weekend at the kennels!"
"Amazing," Max sighed, "But to be honest, I don't really go for this animal thing. You see that hole," he said, pointing at my gaping sex, "that's mine, and I have no desire to share it with anybody, certainly not a dog! I'm thinking about personally breeding with her in the future."
Well, that was news to me! I didn't mean to wiggle my ass at that point, it just happened.
"That's fine, they have human-only kennels too," said Gothwoman. "There the emphasis is on obedience training, strict discipline, and some fun too."
"Oh?" said Max, becoming more interested, "That might be more suitable for Bitch."
Gothwoman clicked on another movie file. "You'll love this clip... it's called a Licking Ring."
At first I couldn't make out the image on the screen, then I saw around twenty women were on their hands and knees in a circle, heavy chains linked them together, keeping them that way. Each woman was licking the cunt and ass of the one in front, therefore each was simultaneously giving and receiving. I assumed they were all women, until Gothwoman delighted in pointing out that several in the Licking Ring were men. She took the opportunity to tease the gay guy and Max about it, confirming my growing suspicion that she was some kind of dominatrix.
They watched the Licking Ring on the screen for a minute, as indeed I did. It wasn't just pleasure for these women, it was training too. A stern-looking man stalked around the circle, ready to apply his whip to the back of any slackers. "I wanna see those tongues moving," he bellowed like a sergeant major. Gradually a chorus of 'oohs and 'umms' began to rise as the enforced licking took effect. I began to feel aroused myself, imagining being in such a situation - being forced to lick a woman's ripe sex whilst I myself was being licked, and all the while being overseen by a whip-wielding hunk.
When the video clip finished, their attention turned to me. "I assume that's how you usually fuck her?" Gothwoman asked Max, referring to my frame. "I don't blame you, if I had a dick I would too!"
"How can you not find that attractive, Ryan?" Gothwoman demanded of the gay guy. "You'd rather stick your cock into a man's grubby ass than into this one's warm and luscious cunt?"
Ryan, who was clearly used to Gothwoman's teasing, replied: "Dear, you know very well my cock has never been up a man's bum."
"He's submissive," gothwoman explained to Max, making it sound like Ryan had a terrible disability. "He loves to be tied up and humiliated, and he doesn't mind if it's a man or a woman doing it."
"That's not quite true," Ryan corrected her, "you're the only woman who's ever tied me up, and the only reason I let you is you're so damn good at it!"
Max steered the conversation back to business, inviting Gothwoman and Ryan to review the website designs he'd been working on. He left them to it (and me to them), while he was in the kitchen preparing supper.
Deprived of an audience, the ill-matched partners suddenly became businesslike, commenting and making notes as they reviewed a series of pages. I was being ignored. Having already had my sex and ass discussed at some length, perhaps there was little else to say about me. I was just a dog, after all.
Five minutes later Gothwoman was bored of websites, leaving Ryan to continue. She knelt down behind me, planning her assault. I couldn't turn to see her, but I could feel her presence even before she touched me. She tugged on my tail, I instinctive clenched my anus, just in case it came out and Max blamed me for expelling it. Satisfied that I was properly 'tailed' she placed her long red fingernails lightly on my buttocks, with the implied threat that she might scratch me. She noticed I was trembling and nervously fidgeting, which amused her.
"Poor little doggy's trapped in her frame," she teased.
The strap on my neck support was so tight I couldn't even shake my head to signal 'no' to her. No-one but Max had ever touched me while I was in bondage.
One of her hands went lower, her fingers tracing over my pussy lips. I bit down on the bone gag, not knowing whether I should make a noise to attract Max's attention, or remain passive and quiet. I chose the latter, which encouraged gothwoman's continued exploration, and the inexorable progress of her fingers towards my clitoris. She had all the right moves, taking her time with me. I felt myself responding. She commented on my wetness and took it as a signal to continue. A fingernail scraped against my clit-hood and two fingers slipped inside me. As she started to rub that I rebelled, shaking my hips so that she lost her grip on me.
"Yeeeuugh!" gothwoman exclaimed, upon seeing red greasepaint on two fingers. She wiped them on my buttocks attempting to remove the paint. Then, in moment of pure spite she trod on the upturned sole of left foot. I felt the points of the sole tacks pressing hard against my skin. I didn't give her the pleasure of a reaction, even though I was in pain.
Gothwoman stood in front of me, obliging me to contemplate her high-heeled patent leather boots. Crouching down, she gripped a handful of my hair, lifting my head painfully upwards to meet her angry glare. "You think you're cute don't you, Max's little doggy-girl with your shaggy blonde hair and cute nose? When I get a chance to train you, I'll show you what being a dog is all about."
She released her grip and retreated back to her chair, resuming her study of Max's web designs.
I heard the microwave ping, and like a true Pavlovian dog, I began to anticipate my dinner, and release from my eponymous frame.
"Ready in five minutes," said Max, walking into the office. He immediately noticed the greasepaint on my buttocks and turned to gothwoman. "Has bitch been teasing you? She's addicted to rubbing her clit, that's why I use the greasepaint to monitor her. Perhaps she thought it okay to get somebody else to rub her pussy instead!"
"You should punish her," said gothwoman, wiping her fingers on a handkerchief proffered by Ryan.
"I will." said Max, but I hoped that would be after his guests had left. He released me from the frame's straps and led me by the leash into the kitchen.
In the middle of the kitchen floor was my dog-bowl full of Campbell's meatballs in gravy - the stuff that comes in a can, apparently loved by some children. It was what I ate twice a day, every dog day. I never complained about the lack of variety because I knew the alternative. I'd seen inside the cupboard containing a shelf of meatballs, with a couple of cans of Pedigree Chum to the side of them. If I refused to eat the meatballs I'd get the Chum, and this time refusal was not an option. It had only happened once, and I can still taste it now.
Max untied and removed my bone gag so I could eat. Then he served up supper, while I ate mine at his feet. Their penne al arrabiata was as hot and spicy as my meatballs were bland. Plus, they had a bottle of Chianti to wash the pasta down. I had a bowl of water.
Usually Max left the door to the garden open, so I could go outside after eating. I guess it was the distraction of cooking for guests that made him forget. I waited, sitting on the cold marble kitchen floor for fifteen minutes, expecting him to return, but all I heard was laughter, lubricated I supposed, by the Chianti. I needed a pee, and that meant going in the garden.
Owners have no idea what difficult decisions their pets sometimes have to make. This time it was whether to pee on the kitchen floor or venture into the dining room to attract his attention. (Holding on was no longer an option.) I peeked my head into the dining room finding that Max had his back to the door. Gothwoman saw me first, and the expression of disapproval on her face was picked up by Max. Suddenly it turned into a race back to the kitchen - not that I had anywhere to go when I got there.
He grabbed my bone-gag, thrust it into my mouth, tied it in place, and literally kicked me out into the garden. At least he hadn't shouted; the occasional kick on my backside I could take.