To Have, To Hold, And To Own

When Molly's work was done, Pixie's long, lustrous mane had gone from unwieldy to eminently wieldable. The braid was tight, and the interwoven red leash was a lovely decoration. Had it been a dye job, it would've qualified as a masterpiece -- a testament to the stylist's ability to visualize the braid, and then color exactly the right pieces of the hair while it was splayed out before them.

The snaking streak of red was shiny. Even though Pixie rarely saw it, the mere knowledge made her happy. It also matched the collar that Molly would eventually fasten around her pale, delicate neck. Just before the braid met the scalp, the red leash parted ways and poked out, ready to be linked. It wasn't quite time for that yet.

Molly got up and briefly admired her handiwork. She liked having a pretty, well-groomed pet. Then she crouched down and released the restraints. Pixie had tired herself out, and only gave the merest whine of protest when Molly nudged her up off the dildo and back onto the carpeted floor. Molly remembered to grab the lube too. The morning's rituals weren't over.

Molly stood again, lube in hand, lording over her pet. Pixie crawled over to her leg and nuzzled it, drunkenly purring. She looked up, emerald green peeking through heavy eyelids. She pawed Molly's leg for leverage. Her tongue stuck out a little. She was heading towards Molly's pussy, wordlessly seeking permission.

Molly put her hands on her hips and shook her head. She flashed Pixie a predatory grin -- aggressive dominance, just what her pet liked.

"Oh no, Pixie," she said. "You know what time it is now."

Pixie's eyes widened. She feigned fear, but did it poorly. Even after so many orgasms, she was excited. She was practically quivering.

"That's right," Molly said. "It's reminder time. Fetch."

Veterinary truths were once again irrelevant. Molly expected, and demanded, the loyalty and competence of a dog from her kitty. When sex was involved, Pixie -- Maxine, really -- was all too happy to be a unique, hybrid animal. Service and submission trumped simplemindedness, and sex trumped all. Molly counted her blessings.

Pixie crawled to the toy chest, but used human hands to retrieve Molly's tool. She put the red dildo between her teeth. As she crawled back to her owner, the attached custom harness bobbed awkwardly to one side of her head. There was a purple probe inside of it for Molly's pussy, adding to the lopsided weight.

Molly had already lubed her channel. She crouched down and put her free hand next to Pixie's mouth.

"Open," she commanded, and Pixie obeyed. The dildo fell into Molly's hand. It was a minor, meaningless ritual, but Pixie liked it. The harness was headed to the carpet anyway.

"Hold it for me, Pixie," she said.

Pixie gladly used two human hands to arrange and hold the harness. Molly coated the inner probe and the clitoral teasers with lube. Then she stood up and spread her legs.

"Secure my cock," she said.

Between the two of them, it took no more than ten seconds to put everything in its proper place. The harness itself whirred and inflated, negotiating between saved settings and the tiny day-to-day fluctuations of the human body. Molly gritted her teeth to endure the inner probe's entry. There was no physical pain -- quite the opposite, in fact. She still hated it. She hated being penetrated. She hated being filled. She hated that she needed it so much, and that it would make her feel so incredibly good while she was topping and dominating her pet. An anal teaser had been absolutely out of the question. By modern standards, foregoing it made her unusual.

She switched the canister of lube to her other hand and snapped twice.

"Bed, Pixie," she said. She masked her mental discomfort with increased aggression. "Present."

Pixie hopped up on the bed and took her usual position. Molly's clit throbbed and her pussy twitched at the sight. It was pure submission, and it would impress a yoga master. Maxine basically was one. She did 'cat stretches' for at least an hour every day. She took being a pretty girl -- a pretty kitty -- very seriously.

Molly got up on the bed behind her pet, and immediately began lubing her stretched ring. She tugged the plug's base few times just to get Pixie even more riled up. Then she made a soothing, shushing noise, and eased the red plug out of her bottom.

It was small, by modern standards. Anal modifications were commonplace in the Coastal Alliance, and lots of people were fascinated by the idea of taking huge cocks -- and/or other cock-like objects -- deep inside of themselves. Pixie was different. She wanted to keep her asshole as tight as possible while still enjoying her 'reminders.' Neither she nor Molly had any idea just how tight a cat's asshole was, relative to their size -- and to the size of a male cat's penis, for that matter -- but once again, fantasy mooted reality. Pixie wanted to have a tight little asshole, so, within reason, that's what she had. Her usual plug was long, but thin. Even at its widest point near the bottom, it barely spanned Molly's two longest fingers side-by-side. The short section between the plug's body and its flared base was smaller around than a pinkie.

Molly lubed up exactly those two fingers and slid them inside of her pet's pink rear hole. Pixie's meow was a story, told in chapters that lasted mere moments: surprise, indignation, surrender, then pleasure. The first two chapters were pure fiction. The third was technically true, but also part of the game. The fourth was nonfiction. Pixie loved anal attention.

Pixie began thrusting her hips almost immediately. Molly had to drop the can of lube and swat her bottom.

"Hold still!" she scolded. There was no risk of injury, and almost none of pain, but Molly believed in caution. She ensured that a fresh coat of lube covered Pixie's entire back channel, even though the modern versions both stayed in place and lasted for days. Pixie's ass was, for all intents and purposes, perpetually ready for Molly's attentions.

Molly coated her red cock in lube too, chuckling at all of its ridges and bumps as her hand glided over them. She and Maxine had designed it together. It looked absolutely ridiculous; Molly could only concede that it looked more like some other animal's penis than it did a human's. That was a minor concession at best. Pixie loved it, though. That was good enough for Molly.

Molly wiped her hands as best she could, then grasped Pixie's ass cheeks, near to her dainty hips. She expertly maneuvered the artificial cockhead to its target. She touched the two together, then waited.

"Nice and shiny," she murmured, just loud enough for Pixie to hear.

Pixie whined and moved her hips again. That was the trigger. Molly rammed her ridiculous red cock home. Pixie told another wordless story, similar to the last. This time, the earlier chapters were slightly more convincing.

Pixie liked it in the ass, and she liked it rough. She was lucky she hadn't been born a hundred years earlier. The clinic had ensured her rear entrance and tunnel could withstand the dominant reamings she so desperately craved. It had also made sure she experienced exactly the mixture of pain and pleasure that she needed, wanted, and thought she deserved, every single time.

Quite unlike breastfeeding, the clinics still had some trouble getting the emotional contours of anal sex just right. They weren't a basic, primal part of human biology. There was no default template to enhance or tweak. Pixie had gotten exactly what she'd wanted regardless. Molly sometimes imagined that Pixie -- and Maxine, both of them together -- were featured in a series of scholarly articles somewhere: the ultimate collaboration between patient and doctors. She was convinced that, just as surely as Pixie could brainwash herself to fall into a daze at the sound of a chime, she'd also transformed her own anus and rectum into a submissive keyhole, perfectly matched to her dominant owner's phallic key. When unlocked, her ass offered up a treasure trove of satisfaction. Its coins and gems jangled with a familiar tune: the feelings of being conquered, claimed, plundered, and completely at the mercy of a relentless invader. The physical pain and pleasure were harmonic accompaniment, making way for the psychological melody.

"Take it all the way, bitch," Molly said. She felt genuine aggression, and let it come to the forefront of her voice. "Submit to my red, shiny cock. It's okay to enjoy it. I want you to fucking enjoy it. Bitches love cocks. Slutty kitties love it up the ass. You're my slutty fucking butt-bitch kitty."

Pixie loved dirty talk. Molly loved it in the moment, but found it hard to take herself seriously afterwards. She cringed at the clichés and the repetition. Pixie didn't care at all; she never got sick of them. In that sense, she was far freer than her owner. She'd happily tell Molly that she was her bitch, her property, her completely owned pet, her fuckhole, her butt slut, and her milk-drunk, empty-headed little kitty dozens upon dozens of times during her 'reminders.' She'd happily hear her owner call her the same, or entertain endless questions and demands to coax out specific clichés at specific times. She loved it so much that she'd gladly forego mewling, meowing, and wailing in favor of trite human words, devoid of all nuance. Molly was forcing her to use those words, after all. She was forcing her pet to speak. 'Reminder' was just another word for 'reinforcement.'

Molly was actually relieved that Pixie's standards were so low. After six months, there was nothing much left to say. She'd have run out breath before finishing a truly novel variation on the theme. Also, rough-fucking was hard work; she needed to save some of her breath to dominate Pixie physically, rather than just verbally.

Molly began each 'reminder' on her knees behind Pixie's presented body, ramming her fake red cock into her pet's asshole. After a while, one hand lifted from Pixie's hip, found her braided hair-leash, and added violent tugs to the equation. Eventually, though, soreness and exhaustion won out. Molly always finished by laying atop her prone pet, who by that point had also succumbed and collapsed.

The transition was serendipitous. Pixie loved feeling her owner's weight. She also loved getting bitten. Once Molly's body was flat atop Pixie's, she took huge chunks of her pet's delicate flesh between her teeth -- from the neck, clavicle, or shoulder -- and held them there, letting Pixie feel the sharp, unyielding pressure of both rows of teeth. She grunted and growled into those chunks, which spared her from repeating inspired lines like "Who fucking owns you?" and "Take my shiny red cock all the way up your tight little shit pipe!" for the hundredth time.

Just like every day, Pixie bucked, spasmed, and then quivered through her submissive anal orgasms. She just barely mustered the presence of mind to thank Molly for them. Molly, meanwhile, had orgasms of her own -- orgasms she needed, but hated. Even worse, they weren't quite enough to satisfy her maddening, utterly irrational need.

Molly's problem was that she was a lesbian, a dominant, and a top... but desperately needed to be penetrated, filled and fucked by cocks.

Every time she cooled down atop her pet, she thought the same thing: what the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck?

"I love you, Mistress," Pixie happily sighed.

Molly kissed and licked her, especially where she could still feel the indentations of her own teeth. Pixie had completely submitted. She was fully reminded of her place, at least for another twelve hours or so. The time for biting was over.

It wasn't long before the feeling of the probe in her pussy filled Molly with a sense of revulsion. She unhooked herself from the harness, leaving the ridiculous red cock inside of Pixie's ass. Once her pussy was empty, however, she immediately remembered that her vaginal-and-clitoral orgasms hadn't fully satisfied her. She silently screamed, god fucking dammit! and then selfishly put her pet to work again.

She eased the red dildo out of Pixie's ass and cast the entire harness aside on the bed. "I want to go for a ride, Pixie," she said. "Fetch."

Molly grabbed the lube again, and waited for Pixie -- cum drunk and lazy -- to make a slow trip from the bed to the toy chest and back again. Pixie returned with another dildo. It was bigger, blue, and undeniably human in its shape. It was attached to another special harness. This one was for Pixie's face. On the inside, it featured a soft, pliable mound, capped by a nipple. Molly had submitted a scan of her own body for the custom job. She hoped against all hope that the attached blue dildo didn't have a similar origin story. Real cocks were so much worse, precisely because they were so much better. For Molly, a fake cock modeled after a real one would have been the worst of both worlds.

Pixie helped Molly again. The harness was fitted to her face in no time. Two more snaps, and Pixie was on the bed again, flat on her back, presenting the blue phallus to be lubed. Molly did that job quickly, too. She wanted to get the process over with. She'd been riding the dildo every day for months. For the first month, she'd ignored her clit. After that, she'd succumbed. Nothing had changed the equation.

She penetrated herself, and her body said "Yes!" while her mind shrieked "No!" She slid all the way down, and got the same two messages. She fucked in every position she could, so long as Pixie remained submissively supine. She came multiple times. Over and over again, "Yes!" and "No!": always warring, never ceasing, neither winning; she knew she couldn't live like this. Something had to give.

Pixie had no idea anything was wrong. Her mistress was using her for her own pleasure. She was riding her face aggressively -- almost as aggressively as she'd just butt fucked her. She was cumming. Even the fact that Molly was neglecting Pixie's body added to the experience. These face-riding sessions always followed Pixie's 'reminder.' To Pixie, it seemed perfectly reasonable that her owner would reinforce and accentuate the lesson by pressing her pet into pure service, taking whatever she wanted. Pixie was allowed to play with her pussy if she wanted to; Molly had gone through the motions of decreeing that muffled, submissive meowing would suffice as thanks for each orgasm. Some days she did; some days she didn't. On this particular day, she didn't. She thought nothing of it.

"Good kitty," Molly exhaled. She was exhausted. She was cum drunk, disgusted, and utterly demoralized. She was revolted by the blue dildo impaling her, so she dismounted quickly and detached the harness from her pet.

She called up the holoscreen again, and activated the third chime.

"Bath time, kitty," she said, even though she meant a shower. "Don't fuss, or it's your ass."

Pixie took the threat as a proposition. She weighed it in her mind, and decided that she'd be a good kitty. Kitties hated getting soaked, but Pixie did very much like helping to clean her mistress. Most days, Molly would let Pixie lick her pussy and her asshole. Molly went ahead to retrieve her pet's shower cap. Pixie crawled off the bed and padded behind her.

After the shower, Molly retrieved one of the many nearly-identical red, shiny collars from the closet. A flat, gem-shaped charm was attached to the front, engraved with both Molly's and Maxine's full names, their state-mediated emergency contact info, and the pair's current address. There was a link in the back for a leash. Pixie's name -- her pet name -- was spelled thrice around the collar in faux-gemstone studs. The only distinction between each collar was the color of those studs. Molly was in a particularly foul mood, and so she chose onyx. She collared her pet, and linked up the leash poking out of her braid. Pixie thought nothing of it, except that onyx was pretty. It set off both her nearly-white mane and her shiny, red adornments.

Molly set out dry food in the kitchen, and refilled the water bubbler. She made sure the large auto-feeder was ready to serve Pixie her suspiciously-ordinary lunch at quarter to noon, just in case she ran late. She ate her own breakfast; it was a decidedly nonsexual affair. Then, she finally got dressed.

Pixie was waiting for her by the front door, naked, collared, plugged, and looking pathetic. She only mewled a little, though; Maxine knew that Molly had a standing weekly appointment -- one important enough that she'd insisted on telling her, rather than Pixie, that it couldn't be delayed, canceled, or interrupted except for genuine emergencies.

Molly leaned down and gave Pixie chin-tickles and head-scritches.

"I know, kitty," she said. "I know you'll miss me. I'll miss you too. But I need you to be on your best behavior while I'm gone. If anybody stops by for any reason, you need to stand up, use your human words, and make sure the two of us don't miss anything important."

"I understand, Mistress," Pixie said. "I love you, Mistress."

Molly smiled. She did her best to hide her frustration. "Such a good kitty," she sighed. She gave Pixie a few goodbye pats on her head and back, leaned up, and headed out.

Pixie never made mischief for these two hours. She made sure Molly always came home to nothing but her pet's love.

* * * * * *

"You've been a model patient, Molly," the psychiatrist said. "You've taken every suggestion. You've given it time. All that remains is whether you want to take the plunge."

Molly fidgeted nervously. She'd had five or six orgasms before leaving the house, and she was still anxious. She was still unsatisfied. Complex or involved tasks could take her mind off of her problem, but the whole point of her visits to Dr. Anarosa was to talk about it.

Dr. Anarosa touched her glasses and lowered her head slightly. Molly caught the signal out of the corner of her eye. Her leg stopped bouncing, and she took her finger away from her teeth.

"Sorry," she said.

"Bad habits," Dr. Anaraosa replied. "Not particularly destructive ones, but mindfulness is key."

Molly rolled her eyes. Her only relief had derived from the exact opposite of mindfulness.

Ordinarily, she'd have begun listing the failed approaches -- complaining about them, essentially. She'd lost the will to even do that. She couldn't see the point in rehashing the trans wellness practitioners, the ass-reamings she'd given male volunteers, the special harness, the face dildo, the staged kidnapping, the fake rape, or even the NeuTrex -- the latter of which had been a cure worse than the disorder. She knew the doctor was right. There was only one decision left to make.

"It's covered, right?" Molly asked.

Dr. Anarosa merely nodded. It wasn't a serious question. Both of them already knew the answer. Heavy silence filled the room.

After about a minute, Molly broke it. "I have to talk to Maxine," she said.

"I do think that's best," Dr. Anarosa replied. "I know it's going to be hard. If you want to play out some scenarios, we still have forty minutes."

Molly sighed deeply. She felt a piece of her soul leave her body.

"I'm terrified she'll leave me," she said, "and I'm terrified she won't."

"Why do you think she might leave you?" Dr. Anarosa asked.

"Because she's fucking selfish!" Molly shouted. Then she rolled her eyes, and released a long, drawn-out, exhausted, "Fuck."

Dr. Anarosa nodded, telegraphing understanding and sympathy.

"It's going to be a long process," she admitted. "Two weeks of serious, physical recovery. Months of check-ins. Six months, at a minimum, before clitoral sensation returns to normal, and before the body and brain truly adjust to the new reality. The NeuTrex is highly recommended in the interim. You'd feel no sexual sensation at all, which would help your body accept that you no longer have a vagina, uterus, ovaries, or anything else besides your clitoris. They'd even be removing the nerve clusters near the anterior fornix, just to ensure this issue doesn't arise again in relation to the anorectal region."