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My Life as His Bitch

By: BeckyGellan



"What a bitch!" one of them muttered.

"I'm a bitch?" I replied indignantly. "Just 'cause I've a life outside of work and can't stay for another drink?"

These guys really annoyed me, but I laughed and teased them back, rather than take offence at my work colleagues. They wanted me to stay on for their regular Friday evening piss-up at our favourite pub in Neal Street. They loved the back-stabbing and bitching, and the men were as bad as the women. They considered me 'stuck up', not a team player, just because I didn't want to get plastered every Friday night. But I needed to be home early on Friday evenings. There were things I simply had to do, and being called a bitch simply reminded me of what I had in store.

I quickly downed the remainder of my white wine spritzer, wished my work-mates an eventful weekend, and made a dash for Covent Garden tube. This station is one of those where you reach the platform using one of the room-sized elevators. If you're claustrophobic or averse to body odour you can always take the spiral staircase, but that's the equivalent to walking down a ten story building. At 6pm on a Friday, we (me and my fellow commuter drones) pack into the elevators like sardines, brusquely pushing against the unsuspecting American tourists in their raincoats.

Soon I was on the eastbound train, strap-hanging at first, but I found an empty seat as we pulled into Finsbury Park. For a typical Londoner like me, happiness is a seat on a rush-hour tube. I lifted my laptop case onto my lap, placed my arms firmly across it, and closed my eyes, lulled by the rocking rhythm of the train.

When we reached Southgate, I was so lost in thought I almost missed the stop. Ironic, considering how desperate I was to get home! Next was a fifteen-minute walk through leafy suburban streets. On a cold winter's night in pouring rain, the walk could sap anyone's spirit, but pleasant and light summer evenings like this one are quite pleaant.

"I'm home!" I called out as I walked in the front door of the bungalow.

"Okay!" came the perfunctory reply from the study. (Max works from home as a web developer, copy writer and all-round computer geek.)

I follow a set routine upon arriving home on Fridays: I head straight down the hallway into my room, kick off the medium heel shoes, and hang up the pin-striped skirt and jacket in the wardrobe. Blouse, bra, panties and stockings are tossed straight into the laundry basket. While the shower is warming, I wipe the lipstick and makeup from my face. I don't wear jewellery, only an antique leather-strapped watch. Max has mentioned buying me a necklace, but it hasn't happened. That's not entirely his fault as I haven't come across one I really want.

The power shower soon washed away the grime and perspiration of a humid London day. After shampooing my hair I smelt nice - like freshly bathed puppy, Max says. My bleached-blonde hair is a three-inch shaggy cut, easy to maintain providing I make regular trips to the hairdresser. The style suits me. I rinse, and towel my body and hair dry.

I stared at myself in the mirror, analysing the image as if looking at a stranger. The vestiges of my outwardly normal life are gone. A woman in her twenties, averagely attractive, neither fat nor thin, nice round breasts - plenty enough for a man like Max to do things to them.

From the bathroom I go straight into Max's bedroom where I find all I need. I spread out a towel on his king-size bed, not in the middle, but to one side. My pulse races, and my nipples firms up as if a sudden chill had blown in. I laid front-down onto the towel, careful not to mess up the smoothness of a freshly laundered duvet cover. Laying flat on the bed, the bedside cabinet was reachable if I stretched out my right arm. In the top drawer, my fingertips made contact with the unmistakable coolness of handcuffs immediately. They were, as expected, tucked in the nearest corner, one cuff neatly arranged on top of the other.

There's a radio wave baby monitor and speaker on the bedside cabinet which transmits through to Max's office. He must have been listening. "Cuff your wrists and wait quietly for me."

I didn't speak. The only sound he wanted to hear was the ratchets of the cuffs closing upon my wrists. I promptly obliged, locking my wrists together behind me. 

I could feel the heaviness of the unforgiving cuffs holding my useless hands in the small of my back. There was nothing I could do to free myself - the only key I knew of was on Max's keyring. All kinds of feelings and memories were going through me. I found myself thinking of the strange event that got me into this situation. It took place about six months ago in another place. Very much another place. I was single and lived alone...

I have a confession. I was a self-bondage addict before I met Max - handcuffs, ropes neatly wrapped around my body, clamps and clothes pegs, that kind of thing. I could achieve an orgasm, or deny myself with equal facility, and without the complexities of a human relationship. 

Yes, I was pretty good at self-bondage although it's not something one can usually boast about. However, one day I screwed up, fitting the handcuffs behind my back with both keyholes on the arm-side instead of the finger-side and that meant it was impossible for me to put the key in its tiny opening, even with the key in my hand it was hopeless. No matter how I tried I couldn't bend my fingers enough to push the key in the hole.

That evening, a Friday night, I learnt what could be done with one's hands cuffed, and what couldn't - such as untying the crotch rope biting into my pussy. I'd tied the crotch rope knots on my belly, well out of hand's reach. I imagined a sadistic jailor having his way with me. So fiendish with his knots that escape was impossible until he deigned to release me. But upon the realisation of my mistake my imaginary jailor disappeared, whilst his cruel bondage remained.

I went to the kitchen, catching a fleeting glance of my naked body and bound in the hall mirror. 

At least I could sustain myself. I drank water straight from the tap after turning it on with my nose. Later I raided the refrigerator for cold food, which I ate off the kitchen floor like a dog... except dogs don't usually cry when they eat. 

I'd only been in my rented flat for two weeks at the time of this self-bondage disaster. I didn't know any neighbours well enough to borrow a pint of milk, let alone ask them to release me from my kinky and rather sad bondage adventure. It was hardly the ideal time to introduce myself so I decided to suffer the night in my flat and call Patricia in the morning. It was either her, or wait until I was reported absent from work on Monday. Patricia, although insufferable, was my sister after all, and we already shared a secret or two. This would be another one.

I sat and watched television for hours, finally going to bed at 2 am, to endure my first full night in handcuffs. Sleep was fitful at best; I cried and sometimes got angry. Being a prisoner in chains wasn't as exciting as I imagined. My wrists began to chafe, my arms and shoulders ached, and the rope dissecting my pussy was a constant torment. I vowed to throw away of all my bondage paraphernalia as soon as I was free of it. 

Somehow I slept, and suddenly it was 8 am. The morning sun, streaming in through the window, was a welcome sight. I felt pleased to have managed any sleep at all. 

A hot drink and a cooked breakfast was out of the question, but I made myself a bowl of cornflakes, and knelt down to eat from the floor. My face was covered in milk. I wondered how it would feel if I was forced by some cruel master to eat that way. I could imagine his polished black shoes beside the bowl, daring me to splash milk upon them for the punishment that would bring. No doubt the fastidious owner of such shoes would have a purpose-built frame upon which he would secure me and whip me. I was surprised to find a tingle of arousal go through me. What a sick puppy I was!

At 9 am I phoned Patricia, asking her to come over straight away. As soon as she agreed I replaced the phone on the hook figuring that explanations would be easier to face to face. I paced the living room nervously, dreading what Patricia would say upon seeing me naked, handcuffed and with a rope around my waist and between my legs. I was planning to tell Patricia a lie, that a boyfriend had done this to me and had suddenly called into an emergence at work. I think he was a doctor... or something. She'd never believe me, but that didn't mean I couldn't stick to the story. I can be very stubborn.

The doorbell rang. Patricia had made it in better time than I expected. I turned my back to the door, hit the latch and pulled it open.

Then I screamed, and ran into the bedroom. I should really have kicked the door closed before I did so. A man came in, and instead of being scared off by my wailing, he had donned his metaphorical shining armour to help this accidental damsel in distress. He found me cornered and cringing on my bed.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "I'm your neighbour from upstairs. The sound proofing's not so good in these modern blocks. I heard you grunting and groaning last night. First I thought you were with somebody, but this morning I began to suspect you were alone and wondered if you were ill. So I came to check you were okay."

"I'm fine," I said from my hunched over position on the bed. I had longer dark hair back then, and it conveniently covered my face and most of my breasts.

"Do you want me to unlock your cuffs?"

"Yes please," I whimpered like a little child. "The key's on the table."

I expected him to gloat, perhaps to delay releasing me just to savour my embarrassment, but he unlocked the cuffs quickly and efficiently. I rubbed my wrists, appraising their reddened imprint of the handcuffs.

"How were you going free yourself if I hadn't turned up?" He asked, apparently unphased by the situation, and blatantly appraising my breasts. His smile told me he liked what he saw, and I must say the feeling was mutual, even though, because of my nakedness, he had a considerable head start.

The doorbell rang before I could answer his question.

"Oh shit," I cried.

"Expecting visitors?"

"My sister! I asked her to come round as soon as possible." 

I began to panic. My sister had no idea of my fixation with bondage, and I wanted to keep it that way. I don't know what possessed me, but I asked this acquaintance of five minutes, "Would you do me a big favour?"

He listened attentively, and agreed to my request. In short, he took pity on this wretch. While I put on my white towelling dressing gown, he answered the door. 

It was Patricia. And Phil, her horrible creep of a boyfriend, had come too. I kept repeating to myself: "Act normal, act normal, act normal," like the mantra of a madwoman. 

I could hear the conversation from the other side of the bedroom door while I freshened up.

"Hi. Is Rebecca in? She asked me to come round. It sounded important."

"Rebecca? She's in the bedroom getting dressed. Come in. Would you like a coffee?"

"Who are you?" Patricia asked coyly, "Has Becky got a new boyfriend?"

"Maybe."

I heard the kettle being filled and switched on, and cupboard doors opening and closing as he searched for mugs and coffee. That's when I emerged from the bedroom, putting on a dishevelled, post-coital expression, acting like a girl who's boyfriend had just given her a morning seeing-to. Patricia didn't comment on it, but it amused my neighbour cum acting-boyfriend.

"So what was the urgent phone call about?" Patricia demanded.

I took over the coffee-making, busying myself in the kitchen to buy some time. "Phone call?"

Patricia put her hands on her hips. "Yes Becky, you phoned me. We got out of bed to come her because it sounded serious!"

"Serious? Yes, it is serious! Ummmm, the wedding I'm going to next week. I haven't a clue what to wear. I was hoping you could, you know, advise me."

Patricia, self-styled fashion guru, agreed that it was a serious matter. So serious that she volunteered to take me shopping that same afternoon.

"Are you going to the wedding too?" Patricia asked my neighbour.

"Maybe," he answered with a disarming smile. More questions followed, and more similarly vague answers were issued to Patricia's inquisition. I'd never known anybody to carry off 'maybes' with such confidence, or to imbue them with such meaning. Rather than making him seem vague, his non-committal answers made him come across as someone for whom anything was possible; an adventurer, a risk-taker, a man of mystery.

Patricia agreed to meet me in the Galleria at 1 pm, for shopping and girl-talk over lunch. She'd be wanting all the details on this new guy. Arrangements made, Patricia and Phil left immediately after drinking their coffee. I closed the door on them, turned around and leant back against it and almost slumped to the floor in sheer relief.

He spoke. "You realise they noticed the handcuff marks on your wrists when you reached up to the cupboard for coffee? You should have let me handle it."

"That's okay, they'll think you did it to me." I replied rather coldly. It was a mean thing to say, and I quickly recanted. "I'm sorry. You saved me from a major embarrassment. I don't know what I would do if my family ever found out. If you ever see them you must promise not to tell?"

"Maybe," he smiled, and paused to think for a moment. "So I could blackmail you then?"

"I don't earn very much."

"I wasn't thinking of money," he said with a sly smile. We stood face to face, but for his six-inch height advantage. I glanced up at him, making eye contact, and wondered if he was joking.

"Put your hands behind your back. I want to check something."

It sounded like a reasonable request, so I did, and kept them there as he pulled apart the tied bow of the dressing gown's waist cord. The gown fell open like a theatre curtain, displaying my breasts and pussy for his inspection.

He smiled. "Just as I thought. You're still wearing the crotch rope." He knew what it was called.

"The knots were too tight." I explained, "there wasn't time to undo it."

He gave an exaggerated sigh and knelt down in front of me.

I was too exhausted to protest, and stood with my hands held together behind me, imagining they were tied, as Max picked patiently at the mass of knots just below my navel. I felt ashamed, not for my self bondage but because of my untidy rope work.

"When is the wedding?" he asked as he pondered the knot.

"Next Saturday."

Our eyes met. "Would you like me to accompany you?"

I smiled. "Maybe!"

END OF PART 1 

My Life as His Bitch Ch. 02



Max did go to the wedding with me, and the next time my wrists sported the telltale indentations of handcuffs - very soon after our first meeting - it was his doing. Six months later we were living in a detached bungalow in the green borders of North London. His elderly grandmother had died and rather than sell her home he decided to refurbish it and move in. 

Now, six months hence, almost a year after our first meeting I'm laying face-down and handcuffed on his bed, breathing deeply with my nose nuzzling the bedding in search of his scent. But Friday was the cleaner's day and the bedclothes were freshly laundered. I wait quietly. I don't have any choice, lest I be punished for disturbing him.

I heard his footfalls coming down the corridor, and tried to arrange my body to look at neat as possible. I heard some items drop lightly onto the bed. Then he climbed on top of me, his knees astride me, sitting on my thighs. Hopelessly trapped by steel cuffs and his muscular body, I surrendered myself. My transformation was about to begin.

I made my hands into fists, and one at a time he fitted suede bags over them, Tying the drawstrings closed on my wrists so that my hands would retain their fist shape.

He put similar suede coverings on my feet, wrapping the leather cord drawstrings several times around my ankles. These had half-inch padded soles, and buried in the padding were sharp tacks. If I ever put weight on them the tacks would be driven into the soles of my feet. These shoes were definitely not made for walking.

Next came a heavy studded leather dog collar. Designed for a rottweiler or similar, there was nothing cute about it. He buckled firmly around my neck, then padlocked it. I made a little whimpering sound at the moment of the click. It signified that I was a possession, just another item on his keyring along with his car and his motorcycle.

He gripped my hair and pulled back my head. My mouth was wide open to receive the bone gag, a dog's toy made of rubber and shaped like a large bone. He'd modified it so each end of the bone had a hole threaded with leather cords. He tied the cords at the back of my head, leaving the bone wedged into my mouth.

He climbed off me and the bed to prepare the next item. "Spread your legs!"

I complied, pointing my toes to where I imagined the bedposts were. The lubricant was cool and pleasant around my anus. He rubbed the tip of the butt plug around the opening, teasing and stimulating me, readying me for its insertion. After a moment of pressure the plug went in. I felt my anal ring closing around the plug's narrow waistline. The butt plug was fitted with a curved tail and I could feel the fur against my thighs.

"Good girl!" said Max, and I detected a slight raggedness in his breath. He attached a leash to the front of my collar and tugged. "Up. Sit on the edge of the bed!"

I did as instructed, careful not to press my feet against the floor. I glanced briefly up at him, savouring the intense expression on his face. The expression of desire!

Then he opened a tube of black greasepaint and, using a finger, carefully smeared in on my nose. He concentrated, and I sat still as good puppy should. I scarcely ever noticed my nose normally, but painted black it loomed absurdly large and ever-present in my peripheral vision. Max wasn't done with the paint yet. He rubbed a bright red greasepaint liberally on my labia and clit hood. 

I had become his puppy, and because dogs don't wear handcuffs, he removed them.

"Get in the cage," he said in a voice quiet yet firm. The cage - my cage - was made of stainless steel mesh wire, built for transporting a large dog. I crawled in and heard the door clang closed, even before I'd turned to face him. He padlocked the cage door, trapping me like a wild animal. Then he left, closing the bedroom door behind him. All I could do was curl up on the padded floor of the cage and try to get comfortable.

I soon settled down. The tail-plug in my anus and the rubber bone between my teeth were regular fixtures, so to speak. I wasn't worried by them, even if I could hardly forget them. I wiped the drool from my mouth on my bare arm. My labia, coated with red gunk began to itch as the greasepaint dried a little, but I resisted the temptation to rub.

Max went back to his computer, and worked in his preferred silence, although I had no doubt he was listening any noise I might make on the baby-monitor.

The doorbell rung just as I was feeling sleepy. I became instantly alert, listening for signs of conversation.

Max occasionally had people dropping by, but I was always kept out of sight, keeping perfectly still, so that visitors were unaware of this girl-dog just yards away from them. The idea that somebody might see me as a dog in a cage was terrifying. Max's excuse that I was sleeping seemed to satisfy anyone who cared to ask after me.

I could faintly hear the visitors talking, and deduced from their tone of voice that it was a business call, another website client. Knowing the visitors were strangers helped me relax. I doubted they even knew I existed.

I was wrong. Ten minutes after their arrival the bedroom door opened. It was Max.

"Come bitch, there's some people I want you to meet."

He opened the cage door and had to drag me out by my collar. I protested, shaking my head, and pleading with him not to do it. The fact that I was a part-time dog was our little secret and I was desperate to keep it that way. He angrily whipped my bare ass with the leather leash handle until I submitted to his control.

"Paws!"

I held them at breast height and turned them over so he could check for red greasepaint. Black from my nose was okay, within reason, but red on paws meant trouble. He even had a little rhyme: "Red on the paws, red from the tawse." I didn't mind a spanking, but the tawse went beyond my pain threshold.

My paws were clean except for a small smudge of black where I'd accidently brushed my nose. It was so hard not to touch myself at first but the tawse proved to be a good teacher and I learnt to keep my hands well away from my sex, even when the drying greasepaint tickled me mercilessly.

Max led me into his office to commence my humiliation.

Seated around Max's large flat screen monitor were a man and a woman. He, lean and fit with cropped hair, and gay to judge by his manner. She, with purple streaked hair, gothic makeup and leather and latex clothing was... I didn't know what she was. They didn't look like lovers, perhaps business partners I thought.

"She's cute. What's her name?" The goth-woman asked.

"Bitch," said Max. He made me shake paws with gothwoman and the man, but looked downwards, not wanting to make eye contact. "She's shy with strangers."

That was an understatement. More than shy, I felt humiliated and betrayed; angry with Max for not preparing me for this. 

"Where did you get her from?" Gothwoman demanded, as if she could just go to a shop and get her own.

"She kept talking about getting a dog, but I wasn't so keen. The barking, the smell, and all that responsibility. So I found a compromise..."

Max's guests laughed at his joke, and at my expense.

My balled-up fist was still in gothwoman's hands as she admired the suede coverings. "Nice paws. Where are they from?"

"I designed them, and she made them. They're padded in the part she leans on. Those on her feet have a foam rubber sole inside. If she puts any pressure on it, the tacks inside the rubber will dig into her feet. It works pretty well." Max modestly admitted.

"She's gorgeous. Lovely body." Gothwoman seemed very interested in me. "Does she like bondage?" 

Max chuckled. "A real bondage whore," he said unnecessarily. "The bitch-frame, the leash, hog-ties, deer-ties, the cage. All the usual doggy things."

"Quite right, frames are the best thing for dogs, and cages of course," Gothwoman agreed.

Max excused himself and returned carrying my bitch-frame from my bedroom. He put in on the carpeted office floor and led me by the leash so that I was astride it and facing away from his visitors.

The bitch-frame was constructed of heavy-duty iron and shaped like the letter 'I'. Its purpose was to hold a bitch like me in a secure doggy position for punishment, for sexual acts, or perhaps just for restraint. At the four extreme points of the 'I' shaped frame were the straps for holding my wrists and ankles. Max buckled them around my four paws, holding me in the lowest position. That meant my elbows were resting on the floor so the highest point of my body was my bare ass. A metal bar rose upwards from the frame with an iron half-circle on top. It was a neck support, although perhaps clamp would be a better description.. The circle became complete when I rested my neck in it, and had a strap passed over the back of my neck and tightly buckled closed. If I was going to resist I had missed my chance. Escape from the frame was impossible. Believe me, I've tried.

The office went quiet. I think they were all looking at me, enjoying the sight of someone reduced to such a lowly position. "Is she a full time dog?" Gothwoman asked.

Max laughed. "No, she works during the week, an accounts manager or something. Then she's my Bitch for a night and a day every weekend. Except this weekend is a double dose - Friday through to Sunday because I'm away next weekend and won't be able to supervise her. Wouldn't want her to feel neglected!"

Gothwoman was quick-witted, I'll grant her that. "Why don't you put her in kennels next weekend?"

Max laughed, thinking she was joking, but she wasn't. She took over the computer, and logged into a website. Although I faced away from them I could see the screen reflected in the polished glass cabinet doors in front of me.

"Ah, here it is!"

"It looks more like a palace." Max observed, upon seeing the main facade of the building.

"It's called Hardknott Hall. Just your run-of-the-mill stately home actually. It's actually open to the public for several weeks of the year, just to secure some public funding. The kennel is in a walled garden at the back." She clicked on a button and waited for the media player to load. "This is it."

From the reflection of the screen I could make out a green lawn with several people on it. The picture slowly zoomed in on one of them and I saw a woman who looked rather like me - naked and fixed onto a frame not unlike my own. There must have been six other people similarly secured and scattered across the lawn, none closer than ten metres to any other.

"The poor things in their bitch frames get very agitated," Gothwoman said with obvious relish, "waiting for their dogs to arrived."

I noticed that some of them were already engaged - three women were being vigorously humped by dogs of various breeds.

Gothwoman delighted in explaining: "Each woman is allocated a dog which is tethered to her frame by a long leash. The dog can move around the frame a little, but can't stray far enough to interfere with other dogs or women. That's how they keep up the level of excitement without it becoming chaotic."

I watched in horrified fascination, a feeling that I hoped Max shared. He'd told me before that bestiality wasn't his thing, but I worried he might change his mind upon seeing this.

"You see the woman on the right being taken by the Alsatian? She's highly respected barrister at the law courts. Divorced, with grown-up kids. Nobody would ever guess she spends one weekend every month in the kennels. Most of the bitches wear pigskins on their backs to prevent the damage of dog claws. But not her, she likes the feel of the cuts and scratches the dogs make on her."

Max shook his head in disbelief. "And Monday morning she's back in the courtroom?"

"Exactly! With a scratched and scabby back as an intimate reminder of her weekend at the kennels!"

"Amazing," Max sighed, "But to be honest, I don't really go for this animal thing. You see that hole," he said, pointing at my gaping sex, "that's mine, and I have no desire to share it with anybody, certainly not a dog! I'm thinking about personally breeding with her in the future."

Well, that was news to me! I didn't mean to wiggle my ass at that point, it just happened. 

"That's fine, they have human-only kennels too," said Gothwoman. "There the emphasis is on obedience training, strict discipline, and some fun too."

"Oh?" said Max, becoming more interested, "That might be more suitable for Bitch."

Gothwoman clicked on another movie file. "You'll love this clip... it's called a Licking Ring."

At first I couldn't make out the image on the screen, then I saw around twenty women were on their hands and knees in a circle, heavy chains linked them together, keeping them that way. Each woman was licking the cunt and ass of the one in front, therefore each was simultaneously giving and receiving. I assumed they were all women, until Gothwoman delighted in pointing out that several in the Licking Ring were men. She took the opportunity to tease the gay guy and Max about it, confirming my growing suspicion that she was some kind of dominatrix.

They watched the Licking Ring on the screen for a minute, as indeed I did. It wasn't just pleasure for these women, it was training too. A stern-looking man stalked around the circle, ready to apply his whip to the back of any slackers. "I wanna see those tongues moving," he bellowed like a sergeant major. Gradually a chorus of 'oohs and 'umms' began to rise as the enforced licking took effect. I began to feel aroused myself, imagining being in such a situation - being forced to lick a woman's ripe sex whilst I myself was being licked, and all the while being overseen by a whip-wielding hunk. 

When the video clip finished, their attention turned to me. "I assume that's how you usually fuck her?" Gothwoman asked Max, referring to my frame. "I don't blame you, if I had a dick I would too!"

"How can you not find that attractive, Ryan?" Gothwoman demanded of the gay guy. "You'd rather stick your cock into a man's grubby ass than into this one's warm and luscious cunt?"

Ryan, who was clearly used to Gothwoman's teasing, replied: "Dear, you know very well my cock has never been up a man's bum."

"He's submissive," gothwoman explained to Max, making it sound like Ryan had a terrible disability. "He loves to be tied up and humiliated, and he doesn't mind if it's a man or a woman doing it."

"That's not quite true," Ryan corrected her, "you're the only woman who's ever tied me up, and the only reason I let you is you're so damn good at it!"

Max steered the conversation back to business, inviting Gothwoman and Ryan to review the website designs he'd been working on. He left them to it (and me to them), while he was in the kitchen preparing supper.

Deprived of an audience, the ill-matched partners suddenly became businesslike, commenting and making notes as they reviewed a series of pages. I was being ignored. Having already had my sex and ass discussed at some length, perhaps there was little else to say about me. I was just a dog, after all.

Five minutes later Gothwoman was bored of websites, leaving Ryan to continue. She knelt down behind me, planning her assault. I couldn't turn to see her, but I could feel her presence even before she touched me. She tugged on my tail, I instinctive clenched my anus, just in case it came out and Max blamed me for expelling it. Satisfied that I was properly 'tailed' she placed her long red fingernails lightly on my buttocks, with the implied threat that she might scratch me. She noticed I was trembling and nervously fidgeting, which amused her.

"Poor little doggy's trapped in her frame," she teased.

The strap on my neck support was so tight I couldn't even shake my head to signal 'no' to her. No-one but Max had ever touched me while I was in bondage.

One of her hands went lower, her fingers tracing over my pussy lips. I bit down on the bone gag, not knowing whether I should make a noise to attract Max's attention, or remain passive and quiet. I chose the latter, which encouraged gothwoman's continued exploration, and the inexorable progress of her fingers towards my clitoris. She had all the right moves, taking her time with me. I felt myself responding. She commented on my wetness and took it as a signal to continue. A fingernail scraped against my clit-hood and two fingers slipped inside me. As she started to rub that I rebelled, shaking my hips so that she lost her grip on me. 

"Yeeeuugh!" gothwoman exclaimed, upon seeing red greasepaint on two fingers. She wiped them on my buttocks attempting to remove the paint. Then, in moment of pure spite she trod on the upturned sole of left foot. I felt the points of the sole tacks pressing hard against my skin. I didn't give her the pleasure of a reaction, even though I was in pain.

Gothwoman stood in front of me, obliging me to contemplate her high-heeled patent leather boots. Crouching down, she gripped a handful of my hair, lifting my head painfully upwards to meet her angry glare. "You think you're cute don't you, Max's little doggy-girl with your shaggy blonde hair and cute nose? When I get a chance to train you, I'll show you what being a dog is all about." 

She released her grip and retreated back to her chair, resuming her study of Max's web designs.

I heard the microwave ping, and like a true Pavlovian dog, I began to anticipate my dinner, and release from my eponymous frame.

"Ready in five minutes," said Max, walking into the office. He immediately noticed the greasepaint on my buttocks and turned to gothwoman. "Has bitch been teasing you? She's addicted to rubbing her clit, that's why I use the greasepaint to monitor her. Perhaps she thought it okay to get somebody else to rub her pussy instead!"

"You should punish her," said gothwoman, wiping her fingers on a handkerchief proffered by Ryan.

"I will." said Max, but I hoped that would be after his guests had left. He released me from the frame's straps and led me by the leash into the kitchen.

In the middle of the kitchen floor was my dog-bowl full of Campbell's meatballs in gravy - the stuff that comes in a can, apparently loved by some children. It was what I ate twice a day, every dog day. I never complained about the lack of variety because I knew the alternative. I'd seen inside the cupboard containing a shelf of meatballs, with a couple of cans of Pedigree Chum to the side of them. If I refused to eat the meatballs I'd get the Chum, and this time refusal was not an option. It had only happened once, and I can still taste it now.

Max untied and removed my bone gag so I could eat. Then he served up supper, while I ate mine at his feet. Their penne al arrabiata was as hot and spicy as my meatballs were bland. Plus, they had a bottle of Chianti to wash the pasta down. I had a bowl of water.

Usually Max left the door to the garden open, so I could go outside after eating. I guess it was the distraction of cooking for guests that made him forget. I waited, sitting on the cold marble kitchen floor for fifteen minutes, expecting him to return, but all I heard was laughter, lubricated I supposed, by the Chianti. I needed a pee, and that meant going in the garden.

Owners have no idea what difficult decisions their pets sometimes have to make. This time it was whether to pee on the kitchen floor or venture into the dining room to attract his attention. (Holding on was no longer an option.) I peeked my head into the dining room finding that Max had his back to the door. Gothwoman saw me first, and the expression of disapproval on her face was picked up by Max. Suddenly it turned into a race back to the kitchen - not that I had anywhere to go when I got there.

He grabbed my bone-gag, thrust it into my mouth, tied it in place, and literally kicked me out into the garden. At least he hadn't shouted; the occasional kick on my backside I could take.




My Life as His Bitch Ch. 02



I liked the garden. It was mine in most senses: my flowers and shrubs, my digging and weeding, and my loving care. Crawling around the perimeter of the lawn inspecting my garden projects wasn't a hardship, although I resented that I couldn't pull the occasional weed or dead end as I passed. I peed on the garden's only tree, just the way he'd trained me. Peeing whilst butt-plugged was a strangely pleasant feeling.

Max and his guests came out into the garden - whether to see me, or view the garden I wasn't sure. "Most of it is her work," he freely admitted, and then said: "Bitch, come!"

I crawled to Max, kneeling directly in front of him, my face at his crotch, my leash dangling between my breasts. He untied the cords of my bone-gag and demonstrated its other use - lobbing it to the end of the lawn (which admittedly wasn't very far.)

I crawled after the bone-gag, retrieving it back to Max without delay, eagerly placing it within his right hand. He threw it again, and this time Ryan called me. Another tough decision a dog has to make: Whether to return to your owner, or show friendliness to visitors. I had no experience of this one, but guessed that Max wanted to be hospitable. I took his lead, so to speak, and went to Ryan. I knelt in front of him and thrusted the bone hard into his crotch. He recoiled, more in shock than pain. Max and Gothwoman laughed, and just for once it wasn't at my expense.

While throwing the bone for me, they tied up the loose ends of their business dealings. I was exhausted by the time they went, so exhausted that I had forgotten about my original fear of being displayed to others.

The visitors left around 9pm, with Gothwoman reminding Max about the kennels, and talking of introductory discounts. I could sense that Max was swayed by discounts, by Gothwoman's persuasive powers, and by his own natural curiosity. I sensed it wasn't the last I'd see of her.

Max closed the front door, turned around and kissed me on the head. Taking hold of my leash he led me into the lounge. I settled on the rug by the settee while he turned on the television. Then he went back into the study. The television was for me!

On TV was a boring makeover program, something about sprucing up your home before you sell it. 'House porn' Max calls it. What about turning women into dogs? Now that would be a far more interesting makeover.

At least we were on the right channel for Big Brother eviction night, something I rarely missed. Max joined me later in the program in time for the eviction, and sat down with a cup of tea on a side table. I pressed myself affectionately against his legs in a not very doggy position. 

There was something Max had that I wanted, something I'd been thinking about for the last hour. I wiped my dribbling chin on my upper arm; not a nice thing to do, but better than dribbling on his trousers.

During the ad break, he unwrapped the object of my desire: a small bar of chocolate. He took a bite from it, unmoved by my rapt attention. I dribbled again, as a gagged girl is liable to do, even without the provocation of chocolate. I knew how this game worked. Sitting nicely was good, whereas (ironically) making puppydog eyes or otherwise pouting was counter-productive, leading to the denial of chocolate, and perhaps a further punishment, such as having to sit in the corner of the room. This evening I truly believed I had been a good puppy-girl, considering it was the first time I had met strangers. Perhaps Max felt he owed me something after his screw-up with the kitchen door. 

"Paws," he said. I lifted them up and turned them slowly so he could check them for signs of red. All clear. The training is paying off. He removed my bone-gag and fed me several cubes of chocolate over the next half-hour.

Each bite of chocolate brought with it a new level of intensity. Max's fingers never escaped my mouth without a lick and a suck. He grabbed the leash just a couple of inches from my collar and drew me towards him. Holding me almost face to face, I smiled and waited for a kiss. Instead I felt his toes against my sex. I squirmed a little but didn't recoil, I wore a broad closed-mouth grin of delight.

Suddenly he pushed me to the floor. I feared I had done something wrong, but as I looked up I saw he was unbuckling his belt. I was going to get something, and the bulge in his shorts gave me a good indication of what. Usually I'd be fixed to my bitch- frame for sex, when the fucking came as the culmination of a long and intense ritual of pain and pleasure. But the frame was back in the bedroom, surplus to requirements tonight. I took up a suitable position, on all-fours with my ass in the air, my hips swaying and tail wagging until I became skewered on his shaft. It filled me and controlled me.

Max demanded my paws in his hands, pinning them to the carpet either side of my hips by the grip of his fingers. Then he gave my wrists a violent half-twist, which locked my shoulders down, and left my face grinding into the rug. He thrusted his hips, each thrust causing an ecstatic mixture of pleasure and pain, my shoulders joint twisted close to dislocation. He came with growling roar. At that moment even more of an animal as I was.

I barked several times, just as I was required to immediately after sex; whether I'd managed an orgasm or not. It was a pathetic and embarrassing bark that would make anyone laugh. What blissful humiliation!

Max cleaned up, leaving me to recover - in mind as much as body. Then he allowed me to stretch out on the sofa while he watched a late movie. My head rested easily upon his thigh, just as easily as his hand did upon my breasts.