To Have, To Hold, And To Own

Special thanks to GreenGolden, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author. A new combatant has entered the comma wars.

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Molly Stone's girlfriend was incredible, and Molly knew she didn't deserve her.

A gentle e-stim roused Molly from her slumber, as it did every day. She hardly needed it anymore. After exactly eight and a half hours of sleep, her C cup breasts swelled with just enough milk to make her feel pleasantly full... and then with just the tiniest bit more. Pleasure flirted not with pain, exactly, but with an ache -- a desire, a need to be milked.

Every day since, her girlfriend had been right there next to her, yawning, stretching, and purring, spurred to wakefulness by a similar buzz of pleasure. The main difference was that Maxine -- or Pixie, the name that Molly had 'given' her along with her first collar - felt her fully-automated wake-up call primarily in her ass.

Pixie nuzzled up to Molly and began licking. She knew all of Molly's ticklish spots, and honed in on them immediately. Molly squirmed and reached her hand down to swat Pixie's naked, plugged bottom. Pixie twitched with feigned surprise, releasing a distinctly feline whimper. Then, like every day, she submitted. She licked other spots instead; she teased, but subtly. She offered her owner pleasure, with a promise of more to come. Her soft hands pawed at Molly's pale, smooth skin.

Pixie's tongue inched ever-closer to one of Molly's breasts, lick by sensual lick. When it finally made contact with the full, dewdrop mound of flesh for the first time, Molly sensed the familiar change. The licks no longer teased. They no longer promised. They were hesitant -- searching for permission.

Molly lifted her hand up to Pixie's head. She absentmindedly petted her rich, shiny, platinum blonde hair -- well, the part of it on her scalp. Pixie's lustrous mane was so long as to be unwieldy.

"Good morning, Pixie," Molly said. She took a deep breath, which set her breasts in motion. It briefly accentuated both sensations: pleasure and ache. She wanted Pixie to start nursing her right away, but she knew that was selfish. She knew her pet deserved better.

"Good morning, Mistress," Pixie replied. Just like every morning -- indeed, just like every time she spoke to her owner -- she infused the words with so much submission, love, and desire that Molly could scarcely believe her own ears. After six months, she'd mostly acclimated. She was no longer moved to tears by every phrase. She was only occasionally tempted to spoil her pet rotten.

Letting Pixie sleep in her bed used to be one of the ways she'd spoil her. These days, it was simply routine. Molly had found the perfect excuse to turn one of her selfish desires into a dominant demand.

Before the mod, her girlfriend had spent most nights sleeping in a fancy pet-bed at the foot of Molly's luxurious queen-sized one. Sleeping with her owner had been a treat. Treats had to be earned, and they had to be infrequent. Pixie -- or Maxine, really -- had told Molly that sleeping in her bed every single night would ruin one of her favorite treats, because then it wouldn't be a treat anymore. She'd also reminded her that hopping up on the bed without permission was one of her favorite ways to bait a punishment. It was a blatant violation of the rules, but didn't do any lasting damage to the furniture or the carpet. Molly had quickly parsed the subtext. She'd decided to drop the issue, lest she'd have been paying for new upholstery or cleaning up piss once a week.

Then Molly had read about the mod. She'd decided that Maxine wasn't the only one in the relationship who could be clever and manipulative.

These days, Pixie was overjoyed to wake up right next to Molly. Molly needed to be suckled every morning. Pixie, meanwhile, needed to be fed. It was a non-negotiable part of pet ownership: good or bad, punished or rewarded, the pet got fed - ideally on a schedule.

The owner, of course, was in control of the pet's diet. When Molly had switched her to milk breakfasts, Pixie had practically cum from pure fetishistic satisfaction. Veterinary truths were irrelevant; kitties loved milk. It made them lazy and happy. It made one particular kitty very, very horny.

Molly carefully reached across her bosom and found the underside of Pixie's chin. She lightly tickled it; Pixie's breathing became a series of satisfied huffs through her delicate nose. She forgot all about licking. She subtly shifted her neck, trying to get Molly's fingers to just the right spots. The 'paw' on Molly's tummy twitched every time Pixie got tickled just right. With six months of practice behind her, Molly could make Pixie twitch a lot.

"Are you hungry, Pixie?" Molly asked, slipping into one of her standard owner voices. "Are you a hungry little girl this morning?"

Pixie's eyes widened. She lifted her chin from Molly's fingers and nodded eagerly. She was a lazy pet, especially in the morning, but mention of milk gave her a much-needed jolt. The anal tickle that woke her was mild in comparison.

Molly turned her head and smiled. "Very well, kitty," she said. "Breakfast time."

She called up the holoscreen without even looking, and her finger found the virtual button by muscle memory. A gentle, soothing bell chimed. Pixie's eyes glazed over and her lips parted. Beads of milk appeared on each of Molly's nipples; both owner and pet could faintly smell heavy cream. The mod, of course, had allowed Molly to choose her milk's flavor. It had been an easy choice to make. Kitties loved milk, but they loved cream even more. It made them lazier and happier. It made Pixie hornier.

"I love you, Mistress," Pixie said, and then she put her mouth to Molly's breast. She wasn't truly brainwashed, but she'd formed the association between the words, the chime, and her new diet very quickly. It was how she was naturally wired. When her owner imposed a schedule or taught her a new trick, she effectively brainwashed herself. Even before the work on her own mind was complete, she played the part to perfection. Being a well-trained pet turned her on.

"Shhh, Pixie," Molly responded, still stroking her pet's head. "Don't talk. Don't think. Just suckle." It was difficult for her to keep up the owner voice; the ache in her left breast had already turned into pleasure, and that pleasure was coming in waves.

Pixie moaned her own submissive pleasure into Molly's breast, and Molly shivered in response to it. Technically, she hadn't 'talked,' so she didn't get another swat. Like all kitties, Pixie enjoyed a bit of mischief. She also liked being gently reminded of her place -- being told not to think. Owners did the thinking. Pets served, played, slept, ate, and very occasionally misbehaved.

Molly wasn't going to be able to do much thinking for a while either, and that suited her just fine. The mod ensured that, every single morning, her passive-yet-dominant role would bring her profound sexual pleasure, inevitably granting her two warm, emotional, full-bodied orgasms - one for each breast that her pet greedily emptied. Even though Molly loved dominating and topping Pixie, both required mindfulness and work. Mindfulness meant thinking, and thinking meant that her thoughts could stray to her problems -- one problem, in particular. She was happy that her new morning routine provided a temporary escape.

Pixie's mouth and tongue were hardly focused on Molly's pleasure, but they didn't need to be. The process was pure synergy. Each partner naturally satisfied the other. Molly knew she wouldn't need any more stimulation to eventually cum, but that didn't mean she wouldn't enjoy some. Like most mornings, her hand strayed to her panties and slid beneath the waistband. For Molly, and for most women in the Coastal Alliance, the clitoris had become a bonus feature -- a beautiful, oft-enlarged 'why not?' button. Attention there was never required, but almost always welcome. Primal instincts still moved hands and fingers towards it. The very same science that had rendered those instincts optional had also made obeying them more rewarding than ever.

Molly had barely established a rhythm down below when she felt Pixie's 'paw' moving to join in, or even to replace her owner's hand entirely. Molly knew it would feel good. When it came time to service her owner, Pixie happily turned her 'paw' into a supremely-capable human hand.

In other circumstances -- when Molly couldn't get out of her own head -- she'd occasionally refuse this particular advance from her pet. The mod was helping. She was learning to be selfish, even though she wasn't sure she was being selfish. She didn't know if Pixie preferred the mindless pleasure of suckling, or was truly happier to divide her attention. It was impossible to get a straight answer from Pixie, and Maxine loathed suspending their special relationship to answer such mundane questions. That had been their one big fight, four months ago: Molly had tried to get Maxine to explain what, exactly, would make her the happiest as Pixie. Maxine's response had been withering. She'd told Molly that what would make her happiest was an owner with real confidence, who didn't need anybody else to tell her how to care for her pet.

That was just one more thing that Molly was happy to not think about it.

Molly slipped her hand back out of her panties, letting Pixie's 'paw' slide down to replace it. "Good kitty," she murmured. Her owner voice was gone. Her first breast was almost milked. She was almost a mindless animal herself.

Pixie's 'paw' turned into a human hand just in the nick of time, and Molly's orgasm was all the more powerful and multifaceted for it. She felt warmth everywhere, so much so that it threatened to become a numbing -- but addictive - new normal. She felt signals from her nipples and her clit zip backwards until they hit her spine, joining with, and strengthening, a pulsing pleasure that traveled from her tailbone into her brain. It was a one-way trip, repeated dozens of times, picking up those same powerful passengers over and over again. It was as though her pelvic muscles were ejaculating erotic electricity. Her nervous system was a cock; her brain was its head. The final zing -- the electric cum shooting outwards towards some unknown target - delivered Molly her own version of the male's and futa's primal satisfaction at having ejected their potent seed. The final sprays of milk into Pixie's mouth pushed Molly to an even higher peak: she wasn't merely ejecting. She was injecting.

She felt a fulfillment of glorious purpose. She felt relieved of every other burden. She felt ready to die, and so for a few moments, she did -- just a little.

Meanwhile, Pixie kept suckling on her empty breast. Another emotional facet asserted itself. Molly felt her primal connection to Pixie renewing and strengthening. She felt the love between a mother and a child; much to her relief, it instantly transformed into the love between an owner and a pet. It was no less intense for it.

Molly shed a few tears. If Pixie noticed, she didn't react. They'd spoken about it before. Molly had explained that they were simply because the experience was so overwhelming. Pixie had accepted it immediately, all of her worry vanishing in an instant. Her trust in her owner was absolute. Molly wished she trusted herself that much. Molly wished Maxine hadn't shredded her confidence so thoroughly. Molly wished that, after four months, she could just get over it. It had been one fight.

Pixie's hand became a paw again for the cooldown. It gently rubbed Molly's smooth pelvis and tummy. She stopped suckling. She kissed and nuzzled instead. Molly gave herself time to come back to reality. Soon enough, the ache in her other breast dominated her attention. She was glad of that too. She still wasn't thinking about her problem. She could once again set aside unpleasant memories.

She only delayed Pixie's breakfast long enough to find a water bottle on the nightstand and take a few large gulps from it. She offered it to Pixie, who declined it with a tiny head-shake and a disinterested meow. Once the bottle was back in its place, Molly snapped her fingers twice.

"Up and over, Pixie - gently," she said. "Time to finish breakfast."

Pixie wasn't quite as tiny or as graceful as a cat, but she crawled over her owner's supine frame without any accidents. Her long hair tickled Molly all over, but Molly summoned enough discipline to keep from squirming. Once on the other side of her owner's body, Pixie whipped her head with practiced ease, sending the majority of her long, nearly-white mane behind her. Then she mirrored her original position, nuzzling into Molly's side. She gave her right breast a few worshipful licks before moving towards the nipple with her mouth.

Molly felt her pet's hot lips, and then her wet tongue. She surrendered once more to her own pleasure, and her dominantly passive role.

"Play with my pussy, Pixie," she ordered. "Be a good kitty."

She moved her own hand down, too, but only to help Pixie lower the damp pair of panties to her knees. She let her beautiful, generous pet do the rest. With her other hand, Molly gave Pixie scritches on her scalp. Soon, she lacked the presence of mind to do even that much. Scritches became aimless caresses, which became a still, open palm on the back of her pet's head, which finally became pressure. When Molly came for the second time, she pushed Pixie into her breast, as though trying to squeeze out a final reservoir of fluid from some hidden recess. It produced a new, mild ache, but one that transformed to relief as soon as she eased up. She pressed and released a few more times. It was one more source of pleasure -- slight and strange though it may have been - to add to the guaranteed outcome.

The second orgasm was just as good, and just as overwhelming, as the first had been. There were a few more tears. The cooldown took longer. That gave Molly time to think. It gave her time to feel guilty, and to doubt.

Molly and Pixie weren't legally married, but to Molly, the breast milk mod represented a commitment just as deep. At the clinic, Maxine had just kept pushing; it had been Molly's own fault. She'd been the one to insist that Maxine, not Pixie, be present and involved. She'd given up control.

Like so many sexual submissives enamored of their dominants, Maxine was relentless and insatiable. Her truest and deepest desires were, in Molly's opinion, downright scary. She'd told the representative that she didn't just want to feel the usual bonding, warmth, and sense of peace. When she suckled on her owner's breasts, she wanted to feel undying gratitude and loyalty. She wanted to feel total dependence. She wanted to feel the profound sense of safety and security that only a pet can feel when it's submitted completely to a responsible owner -- the caged bird that sings sweetest, because it knows just how good it has it.

Molly hadn't been able to say no. The clinic had only agreed because it was to be a limited, temporary sensation -- ten or fifteen minutes, once a day, no cheating. If someone had requested to feel those feelings permanently, they would have been denied. The Coastal Alliance drew hard, bright lines between 'slavery' as a fetish and anything that might truly destroy a citizen's will. Even in the early twenty-second century's shining, sexual city upon a hill, some shadows were deemed too dark. Some edifices could not stand.

Even in the new scientific mecca, some problems were still difficult to solve.

Molly sighed. Pixie slowly humped her leg. Lazy and happy though she was, the ache from Molly's breasts had migrated into her pussy. She was well-fed, but her breakfast had exacerbated other needs.

Molly steeled herself and found her owner voice again. "Litter time, Pixie," she said. "Come on, now. You know what to do."

Pixie made a big show of stretching, yawning, and wordlessly complaining that she had to do literally anything at all besides laze about and hump. Molly knew better. Pixie needed to pee, at the very least, and she wasn't going to let it happen on the bed.

'Litter time' was another selfish compromise. Pixie would have been thrilled to use an actual litter box. For an obscene amount of euros, one could purchase a human-sized box that boasted almost as many bells and whistles as a modern toilet. Molly wouldn't have had to scoop clumps, or even refill the synthetic sand very often. Still, she'd put her foot down. The compromise had been a week of 'training,' inspired by some old-world musician who'd allegedly trained an actual cat to use a human toilet -- a primitive one, granted, but a human toilet nonetheless.

Pixie didn't dawdle too long. She really did have to go, and she knew her owner did too. They took turns in the bathroom, and let modern conveniences justify their price tags. When Molly emerged, Pixie was already on her hands and knees by the braiding station, facing away from it, awkwardly pushing her sex backwards against the mounted dildo.

Molly headed over and retrieved a can of lube. She cupped Pixie's bottom and pushed her away from the contraption. Pixie whined, but stopped abruptly when she heard the can snap open. She turned fully, entranced by the sight: her owner, running her hand over the red, custom-molded phallus, making it slick and shiny. Red was the color of Molly's dominance and Pixie's submission. Shiny was shiny; Pixie liked shiny things.

Molly snapped the can shut, set it down, then called up a holoscreen. She hit the button for the second chime.

"Time to make your leash, Pixie," she said.

With Molly's help, Pixie climbed up onto the braiding station. She released a caterwaul as her throbbing, aching pussy sank down on the dildo. Molly swept Pixie's unwieldy mane to one side and further secured her to the station by the biceps, quads, and ankles. Pixie's 'paws' could still reach her own clitty. One traveled there immediately. Molly snapped twice, and Pixie dutifully leaned forward onto the horseshoe-shaped pillow, surrendering herself to Molly's practiced hands.

Molly took her place behind Pixie, her knees supported by padded rests that were ostensibly for Pixie's arms. The visual from behind was vaguely sexual, even setting aside Pixie's wanton rutting and masturbating. Molly had mounted her pet, though a bit more like a rider upon a steed than a stud on a bitch. Molly's mind wasn't on sex, though. She had work to do.

Molly neither dawdled nor hurried. She took exactly as much time as she needed to craft Pixie's braid for the day, and to weave a long, red leash into it. Meanwhile, Pixie humped and masturbated like a pet possessed, but her body was restrained enough to keep her head still for Molly. With a dildo in her pussy, a plug in her ass, and her suspiciously-human 'paw' working her clitty, orgasms practically fell over each other in a race to Pixie's brain. There was no way for either pet or owner to count them all. That meant that Pixie almost certainly failed to thank Molly properly for at least a few. At opportune junctures -- when Molly could suspend her work and hold it steady with one hand -- she reached back and swatted Pixie's bottom.

"Bad kitty!" she scolded. "I own your orgasms. You thank me for each and every one, or I stop granting them!"

It was much easier for her to play the game when she wasn't being driven mad by pleasure herself. She knew Pixie loved it. She could practically feel her pet's orgasms intensifying in response to both the scolding and the swats.

Pixie did her best to obey. Phrases like "Sorry, Mistress," "Thank you, Mistress," and "I love you, Mistress," blended together in an extended, shuddering, rapturous slur. It was one of those rare occasions when Pixie wasn't choosing to sound like an animal, but was instead being forced into it. The fact that Molly was simultaneously forcing her to use human words only heightened the experience further. It had been one of the easiest compromises for the pair to strike; training pets to speak was a classic.