Puppy Girl: The Stray

He grinned. "You're right. I wouldn't. A dog doesn't bite the hand that feeds it. A dog is loyal. It knows its place." He stared at her hard. "A dog wouldn't interrupt my work. Wouldn't sit here whining on my doorstep. Fuck, I wish you were a dog. Maybe you'd just lie down out of the way and shut the fuck up."

Amy couldn't believe the bile and disgust that radiated from this man. He was broken inside. That much was obvious. She was stuck on a deserted island with a man who was probably unhinged.

She sank to her knees, utterly and completely defeated. She was going to die here after all, because one man couldn't see her as a fellow human being. A misogynistic bastard, who for some reason obviously abhorred women. Her long hair, full breasts, narrow waist and tight ass were her greatest weaknesses versus her only potential savior.

Amy got on her hands and knees. She hated herself with every movement she made, crawling to him. She leaned down and licked his bare foot, trembling when he jerked back a step. She hunkered down lower, crawling forward, licking his foot again. Licking his ankle when he didn't pull away. She rolled over onto her back, ignoring the agony, closing her legs and lifting her knees, covering her breasts with her elbows. She brought her hands to her chin, curling her fingers. She stretched, exposing her belly to him. She whimpered, whining.

"Get up, you stupid little cunt," he growled.

Amy bent her head to the side, wriggling closer, licking his ankle, whining deep down in her throat. She looked up at him, piteously. Please, she thought. Please, I'll be good. Feed me. Help me.

* * *

What the fuck? Hunter looked down at the girl, seeing her bleeding feet, scraped, blistering skin. Pitiful despairing look. She was licking him. Whimpering and whining like a whipped cur.

"Stay," he barked.

He went to his kitchen. Opened a can of cold beef stew and dumped it in a bowl. Filled another bowl with water. He couldn't believe he was doing this, but maybe, just maybe, she really would shut up and keep out of his hair while he finished these last few pages. Sit in a corner and shut up. Invisible. For that he'd feed her for the next couple of weeks until the supply boat came.

He walked back and she was on her hands and knees, waiting where he'd left her. Naked, and trembling. He put the bowls in front of her, along with a couple of Tylenol, and she waited patiently. No longer whimpering. He brushed her hair back so he could see her face. She looked up at him, eyes big, pleading. "Eat."

She leaned down, pressing her face into the bowl. Quiet except for the sound of her eating.

He grabbed an afghan off the couch, and laid it on the floor by the door. "Your bed. I hear one God damn word from you, and I swear I will throw you out the door, and never give you one more fucking thing. You interrupt me again, and I'll beat the living daylights out of you."

She looked up at him, and nodded. Lowering her face back to her food.

Hunter turned his back to her, returning to his work. He managed to finish three pages before he even thought about her again. He was writing, no writer's block, the words flowing easily. He looked over, and she was lying on her side, dead to the world. She would still tremble uncontrollably every minute or so.

He picked up the empty food bowl. She'd licked it clean. He took both bowls to the sink, washing the stew bowl and refilling the water. He placed the bowl back in its place beside her. He reached out and brushed her hair back. Her cheeks under her eyes were blistering, and her lips were cracked and raw.

Why couldn't women always be like this? Hunter went to his closet and got a light blanket and covered her.

He returned to his writing, his fingers dashing over the keys, his words taking form as fast as he could think them.

* * *

Amy lay where she'd been told, watching him. He was silent, focused, his fingers blistering the keyboard. She didn't know people could type that fast.

She had to pee. It was becoming painful. She didn't know what to do. Would she anger him if she asked to go? Should she just get up and find the bathroom. Maybe she could slink outside unseen. She couldn't anger him. He was calm now. He'd fed her, and covered her. Obviously he had work to do, and she'd been interrupting. He had to stop some time. Stop for dinner. She could hold out a little longer. She had to.

She watched him. Waiting. He had to take a break.

Amy had her hands between her legs, pressing down. She couldn't wait much longer. It hurt so bad. Enough to distract her from the myriad other pains. She heard the sound of his chair legs scratching against the floor. He backed away from the laptop, closing the top, stretching. It was getting dark outside; he must have typed for six or seven hours without stopping.

He stood, and turned toward her. She trembled at his approach. He squatted down beside her, and ran his hand across her hair. "Good girl," he said softly.

Amy looked up at him. "I have to pee," she said softly, eyes downcast.

She waited for the explosion. A slap, a kick something. When nothing happened, she looked up into his thoughtful face.

"Sit." He said sharply. He extended his arm toward her and she flinched before he snapped it up in a 90% angle. "Sit!" he commanded, doing the gesture again.

Amy sat back on her haunches, in pain, knowing she'd be leaking on his floor at any moment.

"Good girl," he said, caressing her hair. "If you need to speak to me, approach my feet, sit and whine. I may allow it then."

She scooted forward, curling her arms back, elbows tucked in, hands curled in front of her neck. She whined piteously.

"Speak, girl."

"Please, I have to pee. Now."

He stood and opened the door. She crawled outside. Why couldn't he at least let me use the bathroom? Was that so difficult?

* * *

She might not be such a problem, Hunter thought. If she'd stay out from underfoot, out of his way. Ignorant little brat. He smiled, thinking how much she must hate being treated as a dog. He imagined his ex-wife, naked on her hands and needs, begging for any little treat. Forced to sleep outside at night. At his complete and total mercy for all her needs. Her and that bitch of a lawyer. Wouldn't that be justice?

He allowed his puppy back in the house when she scratched at the door. She moved slowly, crawling into the house. Silent, obedient, cringing. She curled up back into her blankets, and he knelt beside her, checking her fever. She seemed to be doing better.

Ignoring her, he went to the kitchen and prepared a simple meal. Spaghetti and clam-sauce, from his dwindling supply. He really needed to do some fishing, take some of the burden off his larder, if he'd have to be feeding her as well.

He sat, eating his meal, keeping an eye on her. She was watching his every move. Probably starving. It wouldn't hurt her to suffer a little. Not like he hadn't been made to suffer for ages.

When he finished his meal, he scraped the leftovers into a bowl for her, and put it on the floor at the end of the kitchen counter. He whistled and called her over. "C'mere girl. Feeding time."

She was more tentative in her movements, taking an eternity to crawl across the hard floor, before she buried her face in the bowl. She glanced up at him a couple of times. He expected to see anger, but was greeted by a look of shame and maybe, gratefulness?

Hunter retrieved her water bowl from the entrance corner, rinsed it out, and refreshed it. He set it beside her, brushing her hair out of the way and patting her head. "Hungry, girl?"

She looked up and nodded, the sauce caking her lower face. She didn't seem to worry about it, as she dipped her mouth into the watering bowl, drinking deeply. While she finished her meal, he went to her corner and straightened out her blankets. A few moments in his orderly supply room, and he retrieved an old quilt, which he folded and placed on the floor, piling her blankets on top of it. A little extra padding for the puppy.

When she'd finished licking her bowl clean, he took up the food bowl and placed it in the sink. He used his dish cloth to wipe her face, checking her temperature again. She seemed warm. He finished his cleaning, and noticed that she'd returned to her corner. So she was trainable.

He sat on his couch, doing a little reading, the intruder in his home breaking his concentration several times. It had been a long day, and he decided to end it early. He checked on his puppy, and fed her a couple of more Tylenol, to take care of any fever. He pulled her blanket over her, and retreated to his room.

For the first time, he wished he had locks on his interior doors. He wasn't sure he could trust her alone. What if she came into his room while he was sleeping? There's no telling what a woman may do. Deceitful, tricky, evil creatures. He settled for propping a chair against the door, counting on it waking him up if she tried to get in.

* * *

Amy was in a daze, lying in her blankets. He'd fed her. Watered her. Given her medicine. It might not be the Ritz, but she may survive after all. She'd waited for one of his outbursts, wondering if he'd cuff her, smack her around. Maybe take advantage of her. Instead, he acted as if she didn't exist, except for that brief feeding, and preparing her bed for her. She smiled briefly at the thought of his getting a new blanket for her to lie on. Was that a crack in his cruel demeanor? A momentary act of consideration?

Why couldn't he give her something to wear? Let her out of the corner. She would have liked to lie on that couch, but she knew he wouldn't allow that. No, she had to be invisible, keep his attention at a careful distance. Go along with his asinine treatment of her. It wasn't that high a price for food and shelter, for survival.

Her joints ached, her knees were tortured. Any time she moved, she felt the rough blanket scraping like sandpaper against her sensitive skin.

She closed her eyes, wondering how long it would go on. He must have access to civilization. His food, medicine had to come from somewhere. How long would she have to be his dog, before some kind of rescue came for her, or he set her free? People had to be searching for her. How hard could it be to track down where she'd landed?

Days, weeks, months? What kind of time-frame was she looking at? How long would he be willing to care for her? What if he snapped? She'd have to be good, a good dog. If he kicked her out, she knew that her days were numbered. She would be a good dog. The best. Her survival depended on it.

* * *

She woke to the smell of cooking. The clatter of a bowl on the kitchen floor had her struggling to free herself from the blankets, crawling across the floor. Steam was still rising from the scrambled eggs in her bowl. She made her way to her food, eating carefully so as not to burn herself. Her water bowl was refilled, and she drank deeply.

She didn't feel well, and knew her fever had returned. Her bladder was full. She needed out.

The man knelt beside her, opening his palm and holding out a couple of the painkillers. She picked them up with her lips, and drank from her water bowl. She almost wished there was a way to thank him for that little kindness. A hot breakfast and medicine.

He reached for her bowl, and for a moment she considered pushing his hand away. There were still a few remains in there which she'd happily retrieve. She didn't get the chance. She backed away, and recalled his discussion about how to ask for something. She really needed to pee.

She turned to him, but he was already gone. She found him by the door, holding it open. "Out. Out girl."

Amy crawled toward him and he picked up one of her blankets, throwing it outside. "Don't be scratching at the door. I'll let you in when I'm ready."

She nodded fearfully, hearing the door close behind her. She considered standing, walking down to the sand to pee, but she was afraid. Afraid he'd punish her, if she didn't maintain her role. That, and fearful of the pain in her feet, which were on fire. Her knees hurt terribly, but nothing like the agony she experienced when the soles of her feet touched anything. She felt shame squatting in the sand emptying her bladder.

She rinsed off under the faucet at the base of the stairs. She could already feel the relentless fury of the sun beating down on her. She returned to the porch, scanning the area. She couldn't stay under the direct rays of the sun, nor did she want to leave the porch, in case he came for her. She decided to prop two of the lounge chairs against the porch railing. She laid her blanket out underneath them, and curled up there, under the shade from the railing and the chairs. It blocked 90% of the sun's light, and if she moved every so often, she could avoid the discomfort of the rays frying her skin.

She napped restlessly, drinking from the porch faucet when thirsty, then retreating to her mini-oasis of shade. Why had he put her out? Hadn't she been good? What had she done wrong? Not subservient enough? Not grateful?

These thoughts were echoing in her brain, when she heard the door open. She crawled out from her retreat, already on her way, when she heard his whistle. "C'mere girl!" he called out, and she turned the corner of the recessed entry, moving as quickly as she could, before he could change his mind.

Grateful. She could be grateful. She brushed against his leg as she passed him, turning and rubbing her head against his thigh. She braced herself, then opened her lips and licked his skin. Grateful. I can play grateful.

* * *

Hunter had watched her from the door, as she crawled to the edge of the deck. She stood and walked down the steps, gingerly, turning at the bottom, squatting and peeing in the sand. He chuckled. She really had to go. He could hear the noise of her stream from where he stood. She stayed that way for a long time, before she walked over to the foot wash. An odd little bow-legged walk, until he realized she was trying to move on the sides of her feet. She turned on the faucet, refilling the low trough, and splashed the water up between her legs, then washed her feet.

She was a good girl. Quiet when told. Quick to learn. Neat. Cleaned up after herself.

She had built herself a little shelter, lazily napping underneath it. At least she wasn't bothering him. He'd managed to spend a few hours working, only minimally distracted, peeking out at her on occasion. When he looked up at the clock it was after one. Time for lunch. Time to feed the puppy.

Opening the door a crack, he saw her respond to the sound. He watched her stretch, flaunting her body at him. He felt the anger build for a moment, then melt away when she got back on her hands and knees, crawling his way. He opened the door wide, whistling for her. "Come here, girl," he called out.

She picked up her pace, crawling quickly. That must have been painful. At the door she rubbed her head against his leg.

Hunter laughed, rubbing her head. "Heel," he said, snapping his fingers as he brought his arm down to his side swiftly, slapping his thigh. He walked into the living room, the girl following, one step back, and to his side. He walked over to the couch, lifted his hand over the cushion. Snapped his fingers. "Up!" She climbed onto the couch curling up.

He looked her over, walking around her, her big blue eyes following him. She was in bad shape. He'd need to take care of her, if she was going to be there for a while. He tilted her head up and looked into her face. The burn was bad. He held his hand to her head. She was burning up. He was surprised she was able to be as obedient as she was. She should have been passed out and delirious. He checked her hands, her knees, her feet.

"Stay," he told her arm extended, palm facing her. "Stay," he repeated. He retreated to the bathroom to get supplies.

* * *

Food and sleep. That's what I need. Something for the fever would be good. Anything for the pain. She had been nervous when he'd touched her, looking at her body. What was he going to do to her? Would she fight it? Could she?

He walked back into the room, a bag of supplies in hand. He was bare chested, wearing only a pair of tight cut off jeans. She was surprised by the muscularity of his chest. He placed the bag on the floor beside her. He went to the kitchen and returned with a large glass of orange juice. She felt her mouth filling with saliva in anticipation. He sat on the edge of the couch in front of her. He held out some pills. "Open," he said softly. She opened her mouth, extending her tongue. He put the pills on her tongue and passed her the juice. "Drink as much as you can."

She eagerly drank half of it, the tangy sweetness giving her goosebumps. She took a breath and drank the rest more slowly, passing him the empty glass. He smiled, and rubbed her head. Funny, he never touched her anywhere else, except for those few moments he checked her hands, feet and knees.

"You are a good girl, aren't you?"

Amy nodded. She whined softly, hoping that nodding was permissible.

"Lay back now. Let me take care of you. This may hurt a little."

She uncurled, stretching out a bit, closing her eyes. She hoped and prayed that 'taking care of her' wasn't some perverted euphemism. Not that she would fight it. She couldn't.

He took her hand in his, and opened it up in his lap. He wiped it with a wet wipe, then produced some tweezers. She felt his gentle touch as he removed a couple of splinters she hadn't even realized were there. He did the same for her other hand. Amy whimpered a bit, when he had to dig under the skin. He reached out and brushed her shoulder. "Shh, I know it hurts. I'm sorry." He dabbed some hydrogen peroxide on the worst of the scrapes. It burned for a moment. He extended her arms, and checked and treated her elbows and forearms.

He moved down by her knees, and wiped them clean. They were bruised and scraped, rubbed raw, sand embedded in her skin. He took his time with her, cleaning and wiping. When he was satisfied with the job he'd done there, he moved down the couch, dragging his supplies with him. He sat on the end and pulled her feet into his lap. He clucked over the shape they were in.

"This is bad. You can cry or moan if you need to. I'll try to be gentle."

Amy was astounded that even for that short moment he talked to her like a person. He had some small scissors and was cutting away the torn strips of flesh. She muttered a soft 'Ow' tensing up immediately. "That's Ok," he told her, reaching out and petting her thigh for a moment. He took a long time with her feet, cleaning out the sand, disinfecting. He cleaned between her toes, even trimming her nails.

He got up. "Stay," he commanded.

Like I'm going to go anywhere.

She heard him running the water for a bath. The idea made her twitch. God, please, let that be for me.

He walked back out, standing over her. "I need to bandage those feet, and we've gotta get some ointment on those burns, but we have to clean you up first. You're filthy. Don't fight me on this."

She looked up and nodded softly. Fight you? I'd beg if it would help.

She whimpered when he slid his arms underneath her, lifting her easily. His biceps looked like corded steel, bulging. He was strong, good thing she hadn't tried to fight him. He carried her into the bathroom, knelt and lowered her into the hot water, slowly. The heat made all her cuts, scrapes and contusions burn. She whimpered again. "I know. It'll be better soon. Trust me, puppy. I'm going to take care of you."

He had a facecloth in his hand, and put some liquid soap on it. Amy leaned back, closing her eyes.

* * *