So there I was, standing naked at the end of the leash held by my wife. It was clipped to the dog collar around my neck. My hands, encased in their doggy mitts, were also clipped to the dog collar. We were at the far boundary of our large back yard, just where it merged into the scrubland beyond. I was standing still, having been told to 'stay.' 'Stay' was probably the most basic, and most used, of the doggie commands I was learning to respond to. I was awaiting another command, a more humiliating one, 'display.' I knew it was coming.
In response, I would go down on my elbows and knees, then lift and try to straighten my spread legs. This would put me into an undignified approximation of the yoga 'downward dog' position. Generally, Mary used it when she wanted me to display, in a grotesquely obscene fashion, my anus and genitals for her to inspect, or to play with. In the particular context of me standing at the end of the yard at twilight, it has another purpose. I waited for the command, like the good doggie I so wanted to be. Don't anticipate, she had told me a few times already in my short life as her puppy. Wait for the command.
"Display for me, Rover."
I assumed the position. My head just above touching the ground. Through the gloom of the evening I could look back between my aching, spread legs and see the lights of the back kitchen of our house, out of which we had come, moments before, for our nightly 'walkies.' In front of me, my wife stood impatiently, holding my leash, and a roll of poo bags. The objective was for me to take a dump, while she watched with obvious and utter contempt. This was the second night of my dog life experiment. My second time bending over and shitting in front of my wife. Her telling me to hurry up, that she hadn't got all night. I waited for the next command.
"Now shit, Rover."
With my legs straight and spread wide, my body bent at the waist, my head down near the ground, held just off it by my two outstretched padded elbows, I clenched my jaws and pushed. An embarrassing stream of pee spouted out unexpectedly in a yellow curving arc from the tip of my erect penis and splashed noisily against a flat stone on the ground just short of my upside down head. A shower of warm droplets bathed my face. I suppressed the urge to say sorry; to apologise to my wife for making a mess. Because to sound a word in English would only serve to add an additional day to my dog life sentence.
That is what the great pet play experiment felt like now. For me anyway. A sentence of imprisonment, where the daily highlight was having to bend over naked in the open and take a dump under the watchful, yet uncaring, eye of Mary, my wife and, for the next however many days, my owner. Feeling trapped and helpless with my hands/paws clipped to my dog collar, I tried to focus on the demeaning job at hand.
I saw, and sensed, a long thin turd ease out between my legs, drop past my hanging scrotum and land with a plop on the ground between my feet. I couldn't help wondering briefly, while grunting with the effort to further empty my bowels at my wife's command, if the word walkies would give me an instant erection, a humiliation hard-on, for the rest of my life?
She had told me that my puppy play name was 'Rover' only after we had started into the seven day puppy play adventure. A little reminder that as a dog, you have no say in anything, including the name you are called by. Wouldn't be my first choice, but that's probably part of the reason she picked it.
You can guess how we got to where we were. You know how it goes; a story as old as time. Bored silly in early retirement, in my mid-fifties, paid off with an enhanced lump-sum by the bank from a fairly low level admin job, to make way for the younger generation, or maybe for a computer. No kids in the equation, no mortgage. No real money worries. Free to spice things up. Tried a bit of everything in the bedroom and had some fun times. The one final curiosity for me was pet play. As in, I become my wife's pet dog.
I didn't want to be any other sort of pet. Not a cat, certainly. Girls seem to be more into being cats. They are curvier and more feline in their nature. I wanted to have that sense of being owned, and being at another's bidding. Though, not a pony either. Though I could dig the pony thing, but it seemed like too much hard work for a mid-fifties ex-office worker. Didn't fancy pulling a cart around all day long. As a dog, I would act like a dog. She would treat me like a dog. And, after a lot of persuading on my part, that's what we agreed. I wanted a week of living a dog's life. That was the plan, in broad outline. The big picture, as it were. As ever, the devil is in the detail and in how far you take it.
If she decides to do it, then she's going to do it right. She does detail and she takes it as far as she wants to take it. That's my wife, Mary. She used to be a big wheel in the IT sector. Made her money and got out when the time was right. Now she's a part-time keyboard warrior, just because she wants to stay busy. Doesn't need the money. Does about twenty hours a week, because she prefers that work to house work. House work is my speciality. That was decided a long time ago -- by her.
Mary occupies herself taking calls and emails at home for some big tech crowd. It's more specialised than your usual help line. Some sort of high-end IT equivalent, but works much the same way. You dial the number and wait, and wait some more. Then you get a message saying your privacy is important to them. That's the first lie. It may be important to you, but it's not important to them. Then they tell you that all calls are being recorded for training and safety purposes. Believe that if you must. In reality, it's designed to scare you. To stop you telling them what you really think of their phone-in help line service.
Then we come to the lucky dip section of the phone call. You are asked to pick a number. Are you a new customer? Press one. Lucky you. You are a potential goldmine. Straight through to one of our operators. Do you wish to renew your software licence subscription? Press two. Lucky you. You are a cash cow. Straight through to one of our operators. Do you have a query on how to operate the software or wish to make a complaint? Press three. Unlucky you. All our operators are busy just now. Do not hang up.
Well, good luck. You are now in a mile-long queue to talk to Mary, who may be the only techie on the telesales/support roster that day. If you get fed some music at this point you are doing well. More likely you enter a loop that repeats a condescending message brazenly claiming that they are experiencing a large volume of calls at present and asking if you know that you can transact most of your business online using the app. That you can download the app fr...
"Hi, you are through to Mary. Can you give me your name, date of birth and software licence number?"
You're so surprised at getting through after only thirty-nine minutes on hold, you nearly drop the phone and cut off the call. But you manage to get it together and provide the info. Click, clickety, click goes her keyboard. "How can I help you, Nathan?" So she has my file up now. That's me, Nathan Hemmings. Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like for me to call Mary on her help line and ask what she would like to have for lunch or something.
"Mary, there's this thing I want to try out. A sex game thing." I had said, as we were finishing up our dessert after dinner.
"Oh, yes?" she replied warily, in that 'here we go again' tone of voice. That 'boys will be boys' tone of voice. That 'the things we women have to put up with ' tone of voice. I pressed on, gamely.
"I want to try being a dog for a week. As in, being your pet dog and you being my owner,"
"Weird. Possibly the weirdest one yet. But remind me, Nathan. What's in it for me?"
