Into the Dog House Ch. 05

Stepping out of the elevator and onto the floor of their apartment, Gregory checked his phone for the time. It was about ten to six, which meant he was barely scraping in on time. This was only the second day of the week, but it was the first time he'd been out of the house since Rachel had laid down her rules, and no part of him wanted to run late.

He hasted down the hallway. Their door was unlocked, and so she was home. He shouldered in, the apartment filled with the smell of savoury food, the sound of the television set low, background noise. The couch was empty, but he could look across the way and see Rachel in the kitchen, working over something at the counter, licking the edge of her thumb of some smear of food. She ignored him completely.

He ignored her in turn, as he knew he should, and went to the bedroom.

Dropping his things by the door, Gregory checked the bedside table for the time -- 5: 52 p.m. -- and began divesting himself of his clothing. Jacket, tie, shirt, left on the end of the bed. Shoes shucked off and dropped, socks peeled. Belt, unbuckled, trousers opened, and then gathered it and the briefs he was wearing beneath to pull both down his legs. Stepping out, naked save for the steel that encased his cock and ringed his balls.

He opened the bottommost drawer of the dresser, taking out the items that had been stashed there. First, long black socks that went over his knees, with the pawprint marks on the balls of his feet. The kneepads, next, stretchy fabric and Velcro, with padding around the kneecaps. Next, his harnesses, buckled around his groin and between his legs, leather straps over his ass and with a tail attached at the belt, and the other that bound around his shoulders, high across his chest and under his arms. He then buckled the head harness into place, thin straps around his mouth and under his chin and across his nose, lining up the leather dog ears on his head.

The collar, wound around his neck, with the dangling nametag. As had happened the first time he'd put it on, he felt his body respond with innate desire as he buckled it closed. It was always this item, out of all the rest, that began tugging his mood from one state to another.

Then, the mitts, last. He tugged them on, securing them one after the other, magnetic locks clicking into place and sealing his hands into fists. He looked again at the clock. Minutes to spare.

Which meant he had a moment to himself.

Gregory sank down onto his knees. The mitts did a lot to take away his choices once they were on. No unbuckling any of the things he was wearing, no being able to use cutlery, no cleaning himself, no access to his phone or the locks on the door or the latch on the cage that lived in the living room. It was only ever after he put them on that the reality of their limitations washed through him.

In its cage, his cock was already stirring. It had been doing that on and off throughout the day, whether for the mere presence of the cage that enclosed it while he was at the office, or in anticipating for the evening ahead of him, or for the fact he hadn't cum since Saturday night, and it was now Tuesday, a thing he could have lived with if not for the fact he constantly felt like he needed to.

Suddenly, a whistle sounded from the kitchen, and Rachel's voice, "Here, boy!"

Taking a breath, Gregory rested on all fours, spent a second to grow accustomed to this position, and started moving. Each harness tugging at him, reminded him of their presence, and how little he was wearing in between each strap. The gentle weight of the cage and its lock, the subtle shift of it when crawling instead of standing upright. The soft tail he was wearing, bouncing and wagging where it attached to the belt.

He crawled to the kitchen, bare skin prickling beneath the feeling of the air-conditioned room. He knelt in view, now looking at Rachel properly -- she had dressed down from work, changed into comfortable sweatpants, a T-shirt, her hair in a casual ponytail. It felt completely at odds to his own wardrobe of BDSM gear, another normal day at home.

No ignoring him, now, turning to smile down at him. "Dinner time," she said. It didn't look like she was handling anything fresh, emptying a plastic container with a fork. "Who's hungry?"

She looked down again when there was no audible response, to see no physical one either, Gregory shyly kneeling in place. The gentle ache of arousal that had started to build was not so desperate that it was easy to muscle past the threshold of pride and debase himself immediately, even kneeling, even naked, and Rachel swept a look over him that seemed to recognise this. But before he could begin to hope that it might mean she'd show mercy--

Rachel lifted the bowl from the countertop she was filling with his dinner. Bright red plastic, broad and shallow, with some yellow painted shapes of dog bones and fire hydrants and tennis balls decorating the curved sides. He had eaten out of it for the last two evenings, and waited for her to place it down. Instead, she held it up, shaking its contents a little.

"I said, who's hungry? Wag your tail. Every dog's excited for food."

Gregory swallowed hard, and moved out of his kneeling position so she could see his tail, and wriggled his hips to make it whip back and forth over his ass.

"Good boy," she said, without moving, her small smile fixing. "Now, more excitement. Show me an excited puppy who can't wait for dinner."

Blood flushed to Gregory's face. It was a question he'd been starting to form, that he hadn't yet verbalised: what was it about this that she liked? Was his wife just cruel, enjoying watching her husband humiliate himself at her feet? Testing what he would do for the promise of unlocking the cage that constrained his cock, in three more days after this evening was finished?

And he could feel its constraint all the more, a deep throb of traitorous response that made it feel like the steel bars were starting to squeeze him. He wagged his tail again, opened his mouth to stick out his tongue and pant. Bowed down on his paws, bounced back up into begging position. Please, feed me. Please, no more.

Her smile grew, and he watched his wife calculate if this was good enough, before she stepped forward. She bent down, placing the dog bowl at what was now its usual place on a rubber mat in the corner of the kitchen, beside where she had attached an upside down water bottle, hanging off the cabinet handle. It was full, now, for his use, a halfway concession between needing to give him access to water but adapting to his thumbless, four-legged existence.

The dog bowl, though, there was no need to adapt. He could see it was full of chopped up chicken pieces and rice, stirred together. He'd eaten the same thing last night when it was freshly made. He knew, before eating it, that it was utterly bland, and now, unfortunately, also cold.

Rachel ruffled his hair, patting his back, and picked up a plate of something more recently cooked. She left him to his dinner without a word.

He guessed she'd moved to the couch to watch TV while she ate as he heard the volume hike up, and now he was kneeling on the kitchen floor, alone, where the breakfast bar obscured his humiliation from the person who'd inflicted it on him. Which was somehow worse.

Parting his padded knees, bowing down to rest on his elbows, and he pushed his face into the bowl and began to eat. The TV was not so loud that he could be sure it drowned out the sounds of his eating -- it sounded loud to his ears, heavy breathing from the labour of this position and the scraping of food being collected up out of the plastic. The blandness of the food gave him no pleasure save for satiation.

And yet, he salivated.

The first time she'd set the bowl down in front of him, it had been a shock to the system -- she'd left him there without a word, and it had taken long minutes before Gregory could bring himself to lower his head and begin to eat from it like an animal. But soon then, as it did now, there was an odd meditative aspect to it, pushing past the acute humiliation of eating from the ground, bare ass in the air until he was on the other side of all that anxiety, and consumed only with mechanically eating.

He took breaks to drink from the hanging water bottle, easing the passage of dry chicken, tipping his head around to seal his mouth around the neck and suck, only spilling a little down his chin when he finished. Then, back to the food, until the last bite was swallowed.

Faced with the prospect of this task ending, of catching up with what he'd done, Gregory delayed it by licking the bowl clean of rice grains and grease.

The sound of footsteps had him sit back up, heart skipping a beat. Rachel appeared at his side, touching his hair on the way to picking up the bowl. He heard the sound of jangling metal, but whatever she'd brought with her was set on a countertop, out of sight. "Aw, good boy," she murmured, half to herself. "Guess you were hungry, huh." Above him came the sound of the tap running as she rinsed off dishes, and then turned her attention to him properly.

Her automatic smile sharpened, bringing her hand down to wipe his face clean. She brushed her thumb over his lips, and Gregory knew what she wanted -- he felt the urge in himself, to give her fingers a sweet lick, but stopped himself. Undeterred, she ticked her fingernails under his chin, behind the harness strap.

He felt his collar tug, and metal click, and then leather brushed against the side of his face as Rachel straightened back up, holding the end of a leash. "Come on," she said, brightly, giving it a gentle tug and beginning to walk.

Gregory rocked forwards onto his paws, a heavier exhale leaving his chest as he found himself crawling after her, without any real idea of where they were going. While she wasn't moving fast, she didn't slow down for him, forcing him to shuffle along in her wake, collar jingling noisily and caged cock and balls bobbing with the movement.

Rachel led them both to the bathroom, and Gregory braced himself in apprehension. He'd made do with peeing sitting down, managing to clean himself up okay. She had checked in with him about more intensive bathroom usage that needed his hands back, and then had stipulated: when that was what he needed, he was to sit at the bathroom door and paw against it, whining, and she'd come and release his hands so he could take care of business without her. It was degrading in and of itself, and Gregory wasn't sure if he'd be capable of submitting to anything worse.

But he knew relief when Rachel ignored the toilet and moved to the bath, which he realised has been already partially filled -- he hadn't noticed this, at all, during his meal.

Rachel tugged at his leash, urging him closer. "Come here, lets get your kneepads off you. We need to be careful about getting your paws wet, too."

She slid his kneepads and socks off, and then carefully directed him into the bath, permitting a rare moment of standing on his feet before he knelt back down. As directed, he rested his paws on the end of the bath edge out of the water, still bent over as if on all fours. After removing his body harnesses, she attached the leash to the shower head above him, pulling it nearly taut. The warm water came up to the tops of his thighs, tickling his trapped cock, reminding him of its sensitivity.

And Rachel began to wash him. Liquid soap trickled over his back, and she worked it to a lather with a damp cloth, scrubbing in circles. It was overwhelming, this amount of stimulation -- last night, he'd only been given some head scratches, some stroking over his shoulders and thighs. Now, the warmly wet cloth clung to his skin, dragged across it, her hands firm and matter-of-fact, as if soaping down a thick coat of fur rather than just his exposed skin. Down his back, over his ass and down the outside of his thighs.

His breath caught in his chest as her hands worked beneath him -- up under his arms, first, then his chest. In anticipation, or maybe from this stimulation alone, he could feel his cock begin to swell and truly strain against the cage, gritting his teeth as her soaping him down ran circles over his belly, his abdomen, and then finally, her cloth-covered hand gripped over his caged cock.

Head bowing, he refused himself the urge to rock his hips into her hand, enduring her touch in perfect stillness as she very thoroughly cleaned his cock, his balls, up even more intimately between his legs. His breathing hitched as she scrubbed the cloth up between his ass cheeks, embarrassment flaring hot through his body, doing nothing to diminish arousal.

And then it was over, the sound of water trickling as she wrung the cloth out. Her felt her give his hair an affectionate ruffle from behind, as she started pouring water over his body, rinsing away the soap. Water pooled in the small of his back, and directed to trickle between his legs over his shoulders to run over his chest. She splashed up from the water beneath him to rinse his underside, contact reduced to the teasing tickle of water.

All he wanted was for her to undo his cock cage, to jerk him off. No other alterations to this desire occurred to him -- they weren't even wanted. He wanted to be just like this, on all fours in the bath and wearing his stupid collar and dog ears, her still dressed in her casual home clothes while she called him a good boy and wrung an orgasm out of his cock. That want flooded through him, followed by the inevitable, intoxicating shame.

Even if he was allowed to speak, he couldn't fathom what he'd even say.

But then she was standing, and Gregory let out of a breath, willing the moment to pass. He glanced back at her, apprehensive about what expression he would find on her face -- would she be laughing at him? Judging him for enjoying this predicament she created? Would it be that analytical focus that he couldn't decipher? Something else?

Rachel had turned away, and rather than undoing his leash and draining the bath to dry him off, she opened the cabinet instead, and what he could see from her profile was simply focus on whatever task she was set on. He twisted around a little more -- the leash pulling tighter -- to watch her retrieving some items. Disposable razors, his old trimmer from when he wore a beard, a can of shaving foam.

Anxiety clenched through him. Wait -- was she going to shave him? How much? Which parts of him? Rachel said nothing, gave away nothing, only placing these things on the bathmat beside her. This game was only meant to last a week, at which point she'd said she'd release him, and then hopefully whatever this game was that she was playing would be over and they could go back to normal.

And sure, shaving wasn't permanent, but it felt invasive enough that he finally risked it -- he spoke up. "Okay, just," and he hated how nervous his voice sounded, but also how strange it sounded, when he'd spent yesterday evening only hearing her voice, his own grunts and whines. "Time out, what are you doing?"

She ignored him, as if he hadn't spoken at all, and got to her feet, leaving the room. His anxiety dialled up another notch or two, left alone in the bathtub, leashed and only made hornier for it. The slight lapping of the water beneath his cock only reminded him of that fact, of the absence of anything he could soothe himself with save for his own paws.

When she returned, she was holding something, dangling from her hand -- and it took him a moment to determine what he was looking at. It was a rubber bone, a classic dog-toy shape, an off-white cream colour. On each end were silver metal loops, and from these loops were black silicone straps, with a buckle at the end. She smiled, and this time, the more condescending serene smile she'd shine down at him from on high sharpened a little more mischievously.

Still, she kept her voice sweet and innocent as she wiggled the object. "This might help you follow your rules," she said, and then held it by the straps, bending down to offer the bone by hovering it just in front of his mouth.

He stared up at her, trying to read her expression. Expectant, patient, but also -- intrigued. Watching him right back, seeing what he would do. That it was a question for her did not register to him as uncertainty on her part so much as that she had a hypothesis and was about to see if it was true. Long seconds passed, and she didn't move, didn't speak, only waited.

Slowly, Gregory opened his mouth, and set his teeth around the ridge of the bone. She moved quickly, wrapping the silicone straps around his head beneath his ears, securing the buckle at the base of his skull, and he tried to clamp down on the wanton moan that threatened to leave him, this action sending a flood of desire directly to his caged cock. She tugged it tight, the bone gag sliding deeper between his jaws, pinning down his tongue.

Tried, but still made a sound, a longing throaty noise, and she leaned in and kissed his hair, before moving aside to get back to what she was doing.

And his question was irrelevant, as if he'd never asked it.

***

First, his chest. She directed him into kneeling upright, paws pushed aside, and Gregory kept his focus forward as she applied the trimmer to his skin. It was hard to tell what she was doing, but it seemed as though she wasn't shaving him completely smooth so much as softening up the coarse spread of hair on his chest.

Further down, she sheared away most of the hair that grew form navel to abdomen. Gregory felt relieved that she wasn't shaving him down completely bald, but her wordless, efficient way of grooming him to her preference prickled his pride. As much pride as he could have while kneeling in the bath, gagged with a dog toy, a cage on his cock.

He squeezed his eyes shut as she brought the trimmer to his pubic region. She mercilessly manipulated his caged cock around as she got rid of his bush, enough that he gave a soft, needy sound, which she shushed without stopping. A decent amount of hair was shed, more than he'd normally manscape if he was inclined.

Saliva was gathering in his mouth at a rapid rate, and he winced, tipping his chin up so he wouldn't drool, trying to swallow it back.

"Look at you, all handsome and neat," she said, paying this no mind. "Now, you're gonna help me with this next part. Lean over."

She pushed his back gently, encouraging him to bend at the waist, where he set his paws against the bathtub edge again, the leash pulling taut. He briefly wondered if she was gonna attack his arm and leg hair, until she said, "Stay just like that, but reach your paws back."

He hesitated, then spread his knees a little wider for stability. (And despite the warm water, his kneecaps were well and truly starting to ache. His first thought was that they should get some kind of mat for the bottom of the bath, for next time.) Uncertain, he reached back with his paws, wondering if she was going to free his hands. Instead, she gripped his wrists, and tugged until he was pressing his fists against his ass cheeks.

"Good boy," she praised. "Now spread yourself open for me. I'm gonna tidy you up back there."

The flush of embarrassment was breathtakingly fast, searing through him. Gregory gave a muffled sound of protest, almost a whine, but she had moved on, uncapping the shaving foam bottle and giving it a shake. When he didn't do as asked, she let a little bit of ice enter her tone as she said, "This is happening with or without you, but it'll go a lot faster if you help. Now be a good boy. Bad boys don't get treats."

Gregory bowed his head, breathing harder. A long string of saliva immediately trickled past his lips, and he was sure his cock had begun to bead with its own moisture too as her words seemed to squeeze around him, as aggravating as if she were touching him directly. After another second of gathering his composure, he shifted his paws until he could find any kind of grip, and pulled his cheeks apart enough to feel cool air against skin that didn't usually.