To Have, To Hold, And To Own

"Six months," Molly repeated grimly. "That's as long as we've been together. She doesn't deserve that. Fucking... fuck. I'm selfish."

"Sometimes we have to be," Dr. Anarosa replied. "You're twenty-four, Molly. You've got almost fifty prime sexual years ahead of you - and even the thirty or forty years after that are satisfactory, by all accounts. And that's assuming the relevant technology remains stagnant."

That was the trigger. That's what convinced Molly to go home and talk to Maxine. She thought about herself at sixty years old. She imagined some random holovid: friends, family, a gathering of some sort. The person next to her wasn't not Maxine -- or Pixie, really -- but it wasn't absolutely her, either. She decided that she had slightly more to gain than she had to lose.

* * * * * * *

Molly sat down at the kitchen table. Pixie knelt beside the chair, gently pawing her leg. Molly hadn't even bothered to undress. Pixie knew something was wrong.

Molly called up the holoscreen and entered the code. Though rarely used, they both knew it well.

Pixie whined. Molly looked down at her. Pixie shrank from the darkness in her blue eyes.

"It was one time, Pixie," she said. "Every other time, it's been important. It's important now."

Maxine called up the holoscreen -- something she hadn't had to do in weeks, and then only because a delivery drone had glitched out near their building. She entered the sister code. Pet play was suspended. Pixie was in time out. Maxine was present and accounted for. Her heart was racing. She felt like she was going to throw up.

"We're not breaking up unless you want to," Molly said immediately.

She gave Maxine a few moments to calm down. Maxine took them. She hated being Maxine, and so she hated sending Pixie away as a rule. That wasn't why she panicked every time. That wasn't why Molly entering her code made her sick. The reason for that was because she knew that Molly would never break up with Pixie. She'd only break up with Maxine.

Maxine got up and sat down opposite Molly; her heart rate was almost back to normal, and the sudden sweat on her skin was evaporating. She reached out her hand. She tried her best to radiate sympathy and understanding. She hated sitting down like a human. She hated treating Molly like an equal. She hoped none of that shone through.

Molly took the offered hand. She didn't look up.

"I've been seeing a therapist," she said.

Maxine nodded. "Yeah, I assumed," she said casually, "and you're right, this is important. If you want to loop me in on what you've been talking about, I'm here for you."

"It's a sex therapist, actually," Molly said.

Maxine took a beat. She used her brain. She hated doing it, but she was actually quite smart. Some of her teachers had called her brilliant. They'd been extremely disappointed when she'd declined any tier of university program at all, and had opted to get a low-level job instead.

"Oh, shit," she finally said. "The cocks. Oh... fuck."

Molly looked up. Maxine saw the confusion in her eyes. She saw the sense of violation. She cursed her own intelligence. She really hadn't known before that very moment, but only because she hadn't bothered to put the pieces together. With a single spark of motivation, it had taken her mere seconds. There were lots of reasons that Maxine hated being intelligent. This was one of them: people hated being figured out. They hated the idea that smart people were out there, watching, thinking, calculating, and reducing them to predictable matrices of causes and effects.

Maxine knew intelligence had its uses, though. She adapted. She improvised. "And you didn't talk to me about it before now because I'm a selfish bitch," she said, working the angle. "I get it. It's my fault. Molly, I'm so sorry."

Molly's blue eyes softened, as Maxine had guessed they would. Molly shrugged, and rubbed Maxine's hand with her thumb. "No, it's my fault, babe," she said. "I'm the owner. I'm the dom. That's supposed to mean something. I'm supposed to have my shit together."

"You're Pixie's owner," Maxine countered immediately. "You're my girlfriend. I was a shitty girlfriend. I'm here now. I'm listening."

She was saying exactly what Molly needed to hear. She did the fuzzy math in her head, and decided she believed about seventy percent of it -- or that seventy percent of her believed it. Somewhere in that other thirty percent, Maxine couldn't stop thinking about how awful it was to be sitting like a human, in a human chair, and using so many human words -- unprompted, anyway. She wanted head-scritches and chin-tickles. She wanted Molly to tell her not to think.

"There's a procedure," Molly said. "It's major. It's covered, but it's major. Six months..."

Maxine leaned back. The thirty percent screamed its protest. Maxine knew exactly what Molly was saying, and what she dared not ask. Molly dared not ask her to be Maxine for six months or more. She dared not ask to have a real, human girlfriend who'd take care of her, support her, and help her with her recovery.

She dared not ask because she knew that Maxine was a selfish bitch. Maxine knew it too.

"What is it, exactly, if you don't mind me asking?" Maxine asked.

"Well, it's pretty simple, actually," Molly replied. "The concept, anyway. They basically just remove anything and everything that tells the rest of my body -- my brain -- that it wants penetration - that it needs to be filled, and fucked."

"And that's a lot of stuff," Maxine guessed.

"Yeah," Molly confirmed. Her voice was mostly devoid of inflection. She was profoundly exhausted; she was also trying to protect herself. Maxine could tell.

"Well," Maxine said, "that does sound really hard, babe. It's a big decision. But at least after that, you'll have your very own cock, right?"

Molly's faced screwed up in confusion.

"Wait, what?" she asked.

"Wait, what?" Maxine echoed. "Oh shit, no, sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... obviously, they should give you a cock, right? You're a top. You're a penetrator. You lose the vagina -- and the other stuff -- and you get a cock.

"Are you seriously telling me your doctor didn't discuss this with you?" she asked.

Molly leaned back in her chair. Her eyes drifted down and to the left. "No," she said, stunned. "I'm not... I'm not trans. I'm not a man."

"Neither are futas," Maxine countered.

"I'm not a futa, either," Molly said. She wasn't arguing. She simply didn't get it.

Maxine rolled her eyes. "Honestly," she said, "I think I need to give this doctor a piece of my mind. Will you take me with you? I'll go, as Maxine. This is bullshit. You deserve a cock."

Molly laughed. It should have made Maxine feel better, but it didn't.

"You know what I mean, babe," she said dryly.

Molly nodded. "Yeah babe, I do," she said. Then she looked up, into Maxine's fiercely intelligent green eyes. Maxine wanted to look away. She knew she'd given Molly hope, and she knew exactly what was coming next as a result.

Maxine had underachieved since puberty. She'd ducked university. She'd avoided promotions. She'd done that one brilliant thing, years ago, that had earned her some serious euros -- still squirreled away, a secret between her and the Coastal Alliance, and no one else. She didn't want to be smart. She didn't want to be accomplished. She just wanted to be a cute little kitty-cat.

Twenty hours a week let her scrape by without touching her secret stash. Those twenty hours were torture. She wore the tail and cat ears, which she rarely even did at home. They'd have let her wear a furry suit if she'd cared to. She'd even keyed strange permissions into her work collar. A few of her colleagues gave her head-scritches from time to time. Her boss told her, "good kitty," when she pushed all her virtual papers properly and promptly. It felt like cheating on Molly, but she needed the relief. All told, the Coastal Alliance did everything it could to make her already-light societal obligations easier. It wasn't enough. She needed to be Pixie, and she needed to be owned.

Maxine knew this was the do-or-die moment. Suddenly, the idea of simply being dumped didn't seem so scary to her. It would make her the victim.

Maxine knew that Molly loved her -- Maxine, not just Pixie. Maxine knew she was going to ask.

Fuck me, Maxine thought to herself. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Seventy percent. Thirty percent. Easy math -- but that's today. This is just a conversation. It's not even the thing itself. Six months? More? Fuck me.

"Would you?" Molly asked, just like Maxine had known she would. "Would you stay? Would you help me?"

Maxine knew that if she was going to answer 'yes,' she had to do it immediately. Otherwise it would just be a slow poison, instead of a quick death.

"I will," she answered.

Molly smiled, and cried. Maxine saw the weight lift off of her. Maxine felt it land in the pit of her own stomach.

She wasn't lying, necessarily. She was just shoving thirty percent of herself -- with room to grow -- into a deep, dark hole. She hoped Molly didn't notice. She figured she probably wouldn't. Maxine was the brains in this version of the relationship, and it wasn't even close. She wasn't a naturally gifted liar, but she'd long since figured out how to do it well.

"I'll call Dr. Anarosa right now," Molly said. "Until she can see us..."

She called up the holoscreen and put in the code. Maxine put in hers immediately afterwards. She slipped out of the chair and crawled over to Molly. Still crying, Molly lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom, and then laid her on the bed. She stripped off her own clothes in a matter of seconds, and had her way with her beautiful pet.

The sex was suspiciously human-like, complete with French kisses and intertwined limbs, but Pixie couldn't complain. Molly was taking what she wanted, and soon enough, her entire lube-covered fist was inside of her pet's soaking-wet pussy. It was an undeniably dominant thing to do. When Molly moved her mouth to her pet's ear and whispered the order to stop thinking and start kissing, Pixie meowed happily.

She meowed happily because Maxine made her. That was how it was going to be for a while. Then, for Maxine, it would be even worse.

* * * * * *

One year later, a well-fed Pixie humped madly upon a red dildo while Molly finished making her leash. To Pixie, life had started a month ago, and that was that. She didn't think about anything else.

She rutted, masturbated, orgasmed, and slurred out something resembling "thank you, Mistress," as many times as she could. Molly spanked her and scolded her for not doing it often enough. That just made her cum more, and harder.

It hadn't been a perfect month, but it had been good enough. Pixie refused to recall the eleven months prior, but if she had, she'd have noted the changes -- all of them positive:

Her owner didn't cry anymore; she only shed a few familiar tears each time Pixie drained one of her breasts. The nightmares had stopped. So, too, had the long sessions of staring holes into the full-length mirror. Molly's cock -- and, therefore, Molly -- was growing more confident by the day. Its erections were getting harder and lasting longer. It was ejaculating more frequently, and with less effort. Pixie hadn't minded putting in the extra work to make it happen. Molly had committed to the dirty talk like never before, and had made sure to cap every extended blowjob and hand job session with an utterly dominant fuck. Whether it had required toys, a fist, or both, she'd delivered. Reminder spankings had replaced reminder fuckings, and Pixie had been happy to misbehave just enough to let Molly know how long, and how hard, she'd need to be 'reminded' the following morning.

Pixie felt Molly lift her up off the dildo, and then turn the dildo off. It vibrated, if Molly decided it should. As far as Pixie was concerned, it had always had that feature. Still, she felt especially grateful for it. It felt like a special treat, even though it happened a lot.

Pixie crawled around drunkenly for a bit, then found her owner's leg. She looked up into those confident blue eyes and saw lust. She saw aggression. She saw a predatory smile below them. She saw the canister of lube in her owner's hand.

She began licking and pawing. Molly nodded.

"Suck it, kitty," she said.

Pixie felt a thrill. Her owner was dominant; it suffused every word she spoke. Even when she was sated, she was still in control. When she wasn't, it was because she was uncontrollable -- a force of nature.

Pixie got up on her knees, and licked her new favorite thing. It was already half hard, twitching and swelling. She kissed its angular tip. She gently grasped her owner's ass cheeks for leverage, and engulfed the first few centimeters of angry, red cock. She felt its bumps and ridges run across her lips. She flicked them with her tongue. They were downright inhuman. Pixie loved them.

"Okay," she heard Molly sigh above her. She heard the canister of lube hit the mattress. She braced herself. She felt her owner's hands. One went directly to her head. The other one found the braid-leash and grabbed it, wrapping it around itself several times.

Molly skull-fucked Pixie, and Pixie's 'paw' went by instinct to her clitty. She didn't care if she was already cummed out of her mind. She didn't care if it hurt. Molly was dominating her. She was being rough. She was taking what she wanted, using her property for her own pleasure. Pixie was in heaven.

Molly fucked her pet's mouth for several minutes, but she didn't cum; Pixie wasn't surprised. The cock left her mouth swiftly and unceremoniously. Drool dripped from it, and from Pixie's mouth. Pixie breathed quickly and heavily, taking in as much oxygen as she could, just in case her owner was in the mood for a second round.

Molly took her hand off of Pixie's head and tapped her under her chin a few times. It didn't hurt. It was just another expression of aggressive dominance. So was the subsequent tug on the braid-leash.

"Up to the bed, kitty," Molly ordered. "Present."

Pixie could hardly believe her ears. She was so excited that she almost remembered a time before one month ago. She almost remembered the old 'reminders.'

They could be new 'reminders,' she decided. Molly could change the routine -- increase its intensity. That was her right. She was the owner.

Molly unwrapped Pixie's lustrous white braid, giving her enough slack to follow the command. The two of them moved to the bed together. Molly let go of the braid-leash, but only to pick up the canister of lube. Pixie heard it snap. She soon felt the warm, silky liquid around her slightly-stretched sphincter. She started rocking her hips.

Molly swatted her. "Hold still!" she scolded. Pixie whimpered, and obeyed.

Molly finished with the lube, then eased out the plug. Pixie felt a frustrating emptiness, and whined. She was rewarded with two slick fingers, all the way in on the first stroke. She changed her tune, and baited another spank with her hips. This one was harder. It actually stung.

The two fingers departed, and Pixie was left shivering in anticipation. She arched her back even more. She spread her legs wider. She dropped her head down, knowing it would be jerked all the way up short order. She felt her owner's strong, confident hands grip her hips; then she felt the warm, wet cockhead at her entrance.

"It's so shiny, Pixie," Molly said, loudly and clearly. "So red, and so shiny. I wish you could see it."

Pixie whined and moved her hips again. She baited penetration. Molly rammed her cock -- her real, ridged, bumpy, red, throbbing cock -- all the way into her pet's most private place. Pixie wailed out her story. Molly growled out her satisfaction. She quickly seized the red leash again. She yanked and tugged, and Pixie's head snapped upwards until her small, delicate nose almost pointed towards the ceiling. She howled at the moon while Molly power-fucked her asshole.

"Take it, bitch," she growled. Pixie's eyes didn't know whether to widen in delight or flutter in ecstasy. Her scalp, her neck, her back, and her ass all hurt exactly as much as she needed them to -- exactly as much as she deserved. The medically-enhanced pleasure of anal sex fought a war against it; they created a violent harmony. Pixie never wanted that war to end.

The living cock inside of her was perfect. It brought that beautiful psychological melody to the fore. It was making her feel conquered, claimed, controlled, and used. She felt full. She felt violated, and she loved it. Her asshole twitched and spasmed. Her tongue stuck out of her open mouth. She couldn't have thought straight even if she'd wanted to. Her owner was butt-fucking her stupid.

The dirty talk was nothing new or creative, but Pixie didn't care. Statements turned to questions once she'd collapsed prone upon the bed and her owner's weight was on top of her. She felt Molly's nipples rub aggressively against her back. Then she felt the bites. She wailed. Each one was another perfect portion of pain. In between, she heard those questions, panted out by a woman driven mad with dominant, aggressive lust -- one who wouldn't let minor nuisances like a pounding heart or a lack of oxygen stop her in her quest for complete supremacy.

"Who fucking owns you?" Molly growled into Pixie's ear.

"You do, Mistress!" Pixie cried out. "You own me!"

"Tell me what you are!" she demanded.

Pixie knew the exact cliché her owner wanted. It was one of her favorites -- one of their favorites.

"I'm your bitch!" she answered, trying so hard not to betray how profoundly happy she was. "I'm your bitch, and you own me!"

Molly wrapped the braid leash around her hand again, tightly. Pixie felt the pull on her scalp even though Molly wasn't tugging anymore. With that same hand, Molly pushed Pixie's head down into the pillow. She took a huge chunk of flesh near her clavicle into her mouth, and bit down. Pixie wailed again. She was moments away from her submissive anal orgasm.

Suddenly, she felt it: the angry red cock inside of her swelled. Her breath caught. Her whole body quivered. She dared not hope. She felt like a virgin. She felt like she was going to throw up, but that the act of vomiting would trigger a brand new type of orgasm.

Molly -- her owner, her mistress, her everything -- roared into Pixie's flesh, and then she came. Hot fluid shot deep inside of her pet. Pixie felt every spasm, every swell, and every thick rope of hot, heavy cream. There were so many; it felt to her like they'd never stop coming. Her own orgasm destroyed what little was left of her brain. She felt completely owned, inside and out. She mindlessly accepted her new role as Molly's cum dump -- her breeding hole. As soon that first powerful spurt hit her insides, she realized that she'd never wanted anything more.

Molly, for her part, felt a sense of accomplishment -- of triumph -- that she'd never before experienced. She already knew that ejaculation was quicker and more violent than the orgasms Pixie coaxed from her breasts. This one was different, better - special. It was better than the hand jobs. It was better than the blowjobs. It was a planted flag. It was the snapping of a collar around a neck. It was conquest -- a war won. It was completely selfish. It was completely for her. The reality didn't matter. Pixie's rapturous pleasure didn't matter. The fantasy was powerful, and Molly intended to enjoy it every single time.

Best of all, every part of her that had once cried out for penetration now cried out to penetrate, to ejaculate, and to impregnate. When her body cried out "Yes!", her brain did too. Molly knew she couldn't impregnate Pixie -- not even if she'd chosen the other hole -- but that didn't matter to her. It didn't matter to Pixie, either. Science had gotten them far enough. Their imaginations could get them the rest of the way.