Francesos Bitch

Master Francesco inserted a funnel gag into its mouth, strapping it around the head. He bound the arms behind the back in leather cuffs shackled together with an S clip, separated and secured the legs with a spreader bar attached above the knees, locked the neck in a thick steel collar and then connected that with a short steel linked chain clipped to an iron ring on the floor so it couldn't escape from a prone position. He allowed it to kneel on a cushion, although he could just as easily have made it kneel on the floor without protection for its knees, but today he was feeling mildly compassionate. Every dog deserved some comfort; and it was going to be there a while.

The first thing he poured into the funnel was a glass of cold water, giving it time to swallow. Master Francesco patted its head, and then went about his business with some paper work on the table by the window. He screwed open a bottle of beer. Twenty minutes later he poured down another glass of water, a larger one, and he heard the gulping sound in the throat. This went on for an hour or so: fussing with paper work, chugging back beer, a phone call now and then, and finally a mumbled conversation with his buddy Jamal that ended "Okay, if that's what you want, bro, see you there." He then turned his attention to the shackled beast on the floor. Sometimes he spit into the funnel and washed it down with his beer.

After two hours, Karl squirmed in the restraints, his knees aching even on the pillows, needing to relieve himself, but of course could not and would not without permission. He wasn't unhappy; in fact, he had discovered some satisfaction in being restrained, the freedom of movement taken away for a specific period of time, the chaining an integral and natural part of his submission to Master Francesco. As physical discomfort increased, however, he twitched with anxiety, maybe even incipient panic. Swallowing became painful as water or beer poured down his throat as he struggled to prevent choking and sputtering. An instinctive resistance still mulling about his bones and cells and DNA, a human resistance, he understood, that had to be altered and ultimately eliminated. No, he wasn't comfortable but even thinking of his own comfort constituted a violation of sorts, a violation against Master Francesco's will and whim, a subtle challenge against the Master's wishes.

As he watched Master Francesco fidget on the seat, ruffling papers, putting out half-smoked cigarettes and lighting another, his caged cock strained against its restraint. He followed the outlines of the young Master's muscles. Dedicated bodybuilding had created a body that made cunts and fags cum in their pants, except he was not allowed to cum anywhere unless Master Francesco allowed it, not even when the former student, now his Master, rammed his student cock into and fucked the professor over his office desk, or fucked him hard in his car, and his entire body blazed in frustration and heat and brought him to the edge over and over and over. He realized with an animal passion that he needed to be whatever his master, Francesco the former student, wanted him to be.

Karl thought he gurgled a mild protest, but the funnel gag kept it lodged in his throat. Then Master Francesco towered stood over him, unzipped his jeans, pulled out his semi-erect and tantalizing cock, and pissed slowly and steadily into the funnel, allowing Karl to gulp it down. When the steaming yellow liquid welled up in his mouth, Karl coughed and sputtered. Master Francesco smacked the side of the dog's head with a rolled-up newspaper, and finished pissing. He followed that with more water, the dog swallowing as fast as it could, its belly beginning to swell. Despite the water mixed with Master Francesco's piss gurgling back up into the funnel, it did not overflow this time and Karl was pleased, a pleasure mingled with ripples of fear, that he had achieved the task of consuming all the liquid. Karl could feel his kidneys practically working overtime and his bladder was beginning to ache.

Three hours passed and Karl's entire focus was directed towards his bladder, how to control himself. Master Francesco grabbed his arms and with his assistance, Karl was relieved to be allowed to stand, the collar freed from the floor ring, his blood flowing through his legs, still constrained by the spreader bar. His arms kept shackled behind its back, it began shaking in a kind of constrained piss dance which made Master Francesco laugh out loud before smacking it across the head again with the newspaper roll. Then he smacked the other side for good measure, and the dog heard the anger in the master's voice. It yelped inside its skull, but nothing Master Francesco could hear. Despite the blow, which it knew it deserved, it looked with fond eyes upon Master Francesco, hoping his former student would see both desperation and love, and show mercy.

"Get used to it, fuckpig. It pisses when I give it permission to piss." Master Francesco unlocked the spreader bar and forced it on its knees again, and led it to the dog cage in the bedroom, a cage large enough to hold a German shepherd. Master Francesco removed the funnel gag long, kicked Karl's ass while it crawled and wedged itself within the bars, locked the door, then reinserted the gag in the animal's mouth from outside the cage, the funnel extending between the bars. And he poured another quantity of water down its throat.

If it didn't try to move, the pressure on its bladder would ease. His mind ranged wildly between animal and human. At one time, he was the master's German history professor in college, and the master was a hulking muscle jock student with an attitude, who sat in the front row, legs spread, hand dangling over his crotch, knowing the professor couldn't help sneaking looks at the bulge between the strong legs. He knew that the student saw him. And it all began when Francesco came to his office for help with an essay. How long ago? About a year had passed. He couldn't help but kneel before his student and beg to be used, to be owned by young muscle, knowing that Francesco, older than the average student, whose cock had fucked submissive cunts and fags in dark and exhilarating forms of domination.

The temptation to piss in the cage was enormous. It knew that of all things pissing in the cage would have been a serious offence against its lord and Master: "You piss in the cage, bitch, I'll string you up and flog your ass till it turns purple. You won't be a dog bitch then, but a screaming piece of subhuman shit begging for mercy. You got that?"

A hateful idea, it knew Master meant what he said since it had been flogged several times to the point of excruciating and ecstatic pain, so it tried to remain still, its stomach distending, its bladder screaming. Master returned to the room and pissed again into the funnel. The sensation of the piss, hot and acrid gushing into the mouth and down its throat almost made the dog want to vomit, but it controlled itself and obediently swallowed, its throat working instinctively. To his credit, Master controlled the flow so that the dog was able to gulp it down readily enough without spilling it out. That was immediately followed by more beer, the taste almost indistinguishable from Master's piss. Master removed the funnel gag, and opened the cage door and helped the creature stand. He unlocked the spreader bar and freed the arms, and removed the gag.

"Don't you dare piss, bitch. Get dressed."

Slowly, as if remembering or trying to remember how a human being dressed itself, it obeyed, each movement painful and risky, lifting a leg or lifting an arm mechanically as if in imitation of something it had seen, but slowly, nervously, because it could hardly refrain from pissing, and was terrified of even so much as a dribble or leaking cock. When it bent over to put on its pants, liquid surged up to its throat and pressure on its bladder almost making it burst, it forced itself to plead.

"Please, please Master Francesco, please, please, please let your bitch relieve itself, it needs to piss so badly." Its words sounded human, real words, neither growls nor barks. Master Francesco smacked its head with the roll of paper. "Shut the fuck up. Did I say you could speak?"

It could hardly walk, its eyes tearing up. Like that irreversible moment when ejaculation begins and can't be stopped, the moment would come when the dog wouldn't be able to stop itself from pissing, and would have to face the consequences. Master Francesco led the animal through the empty corridor to the elevator, which they took down to the lobby. Karl's car was parked on the road in front of the apartment building. Master Francesco got behind the driver's seat and the dog, struggling in pain and unbearable tension, crawled into the passenger side.

"You want to piss, bitch? Speak."

"Yes, Master, please, yes, fuck, it hurts."

"You want to piss now, bitch, in the car."

"No, please, yes, fuck, help me, Master."

"You're my fucking dog, is that right?"

"Yes, Master."

"My pig, too, right, if I want you to oink? My fucking pigcunt, right?"

"Yes, yes, whatever Master Francesco says."

"Say it, say what you are, a fucking brain-dead stupid ass professor begging for Francesco's big dick like a fucking faggot... wait, no, not a teacher anymore but a pure pig fuck hole, no better than slave cunt. Just a brainless piece of fuck meat I own. My well-trained bitch. "

"Master Francesco's pig, his brainless slave cunt, fuck hole, Master's piss pig, your dog, your bitch, it loves Master Francesco so much, oh, please Master, it hurts."

"Now one last thing. A well-trained dog doesn't bark without permission. Now shut the fuck up and bark when I tell you to bark. Bark to show it understands.

"Woof, woof."

"Good dog."

He pulled away from the curb, the dog wiggling in the front seat, crossing its legs, practically yelping for permission to release its bladder, wondering why they were taking the car, why it couldn't piss behind the apartment building where the janitor kept the trash cans. Losing any coherent sense of what he was as a human being, his mind swimming in a pool of piss, it couldn't think of anything except release, of the sweet pain of release.

The past no longer existed. A dog remembered its master, a loving dog, a faithful dog, obeyed its master. It would only be human again when Master Francesco wished it to be. "Get out, cunt!"

As if dredged up from a grave, it rose into full consciousness, bereft of self and yet light of spirit, nothing existing except the pressure of the bladder and the need to follow Master Francesco out of the car, and obey Master Francesco, who wore a leather jacket and construction boots that he, slave Karl, bitch and pig and dog and cunt, loved to lick. He had first licked the student Francesco's boots in his own office a year ago. Francesco had simply placed a foot on a chair and ordered his professor to kneel and begin worshipping the boot with his tongue. Eagerly he embraced the ankle and pressed his head down and nearly shot a load in his pants when his tongue first touched the dirty brow boot. Greedily, hungrily he had run his tongue along the sides and begged Francesco to raise his foot so his professor could lick the sole.

"What a fucking fag you are, professor, Francesco had laughed. "I see you staring at my crotch in class so I know what you need. Keep on licking it, bitch."

Yanked by the chain attached to the dog's neck, it could scarcely prevent piss from leaking out of its dick. The Master pulled it by the leash deeper into a deserted, badly-lit area that could have been a yard behind a deserted warehouse, or an alley way, how the fuck would a dog know? Out of the depths of shadows emerged Jamal, huge and black, an ebony god. The dog heard Master say something. It heard the word Jamal, but the pain in its abdomen obscured the words and its mind, lost or scattered, was incapable of forming words.

Jamal clenched a hand around its neck and pushed it down, its left leg scraping against an abrasive tree trunk, or was it a brick wall, or the corrugated metal of a fire hydrant? Both men grabbed its waist and legs and pulled off its human clothes, and the cool night hit the groin like a shard of ice, and the bladder nearly exploded and piss surged up its throat.

"Raise your leg and piss like a fucking dog."

It didn't protest. It couldn't speak. It wasn't Karl who might have protested, who might have spoken, for Karl had made a career out of human speech, but Karl didn't exist here. Kneeling, securing its position with its front paws, pebbles or rough gravel scraping the sensitive skin, it raised a hind leg and pushed down as if to unleash a flood. At first pain, sharp and streaking, nothing came, but it tried as the men's voices spoke over its back and it caught whiffs of cigarette smoke, and then almost with a screech, the guttural high-pitched sound of an animal in agony, Karl the dog involuntarily barked as the piss splashed against the tree or the wall or the hydrant, it didn't know. Jamal and Master Francesco stood over it, watching, smoking, laughing. How long it took to empty the bladder, the dog didn't know, but by the end tears flowed from its eyes like a human, and its knees felt wet, and speech still did not come.

The dog raised its head as much as the collar would allow and saw the light of the moon. The dog sensed the big dark man bending over him, picking up the leash before he hoisted the former professor off its knees and slung it over his muscular shoulder. So taken by surprise, head hanging down towards the human's buttocks, its thighs locked under an arm, it tried to protest, even yelped and barked, woof, woof. All to no avail, the desire to protest dying as quickly as it had risen, it hung down, its human arms trailing along Jamal's back, its head near the man's hard and big ass.

"How long can I keep it, Francesco?'

"Just bring it back to my place by six. I'll be home by then. We can do something later."

"Gotcha. That gives me time. Anything goes?"

"Whatever the fuck you want, do it. Just don't break its jaws or anything, bro. It sucks real good. Good ass. Have fun fucking it. Remember, the bitch is my dog."

"No fear, man. I'll treat it just the way you do, but it's gonna feel some pain that's for sure."

"Don't you shame me, bitch. Do what Jamal demands and do it well, bark for us, bitch."

He nodded eagerly, and barked to say yes, yes, yes. A good dog obeys its master in all things.

Jamal unloaded the animal in the back seat and ordered it to stop whimpering. He then shoved two fingers in the dog's mouth and made it gag a bit, but he probed and the dog instinctively began sucking on them and however much of a canine it was becoming it still possessed the imagination of a human being and it imagined the fingers as cocks, two cocks plugging his open mouth.

"Shit, you're one hungry bitch," the man said.

He didn't throw human clothes into the vehicle. "Lie quiet," the man ordered, pulling out his fingers, and the dog obeyed, and picked up the scent of piss on its skin. It heard the familiar voice of Master Francesco, and its heart yearned for its beloved Master's touch. The voice seemed far away, as if the Master called from a distant window opened on a dark night, muffled by fog. Its body jerked in automatic reflex the way a dog bolts at the sound of its owner's call, his torso twitching. In its capacity to understand like a dog, it understood that it would be returned to its master, that it had not been entirely abandoned, and it sensed that in pleasing this new man Jamal, it would also be pleasing its true Master. And those black muscles made its mouth water the way it used to when it was completely human. It barked quietly in the back seat of Jamal's car, little bow-wows signifying both anxiety and contentment, knowing by now that it could receive a blow to the head with the dreaded newspaper roll if it irritated a real man.

"Oh, yeah, you might want to piss down its throat. I'm sure it's thirsty."

The dog raised its head, its eyes catching the light of the moon. It heard its master's laugh and that other dog growling somewhere in the dark. The man in the front of the car turned around and patted its head. Licking its paws in the back, its ears twitching to the sound of Master Francesco's diminishing voice, the dog folded itself on the back seat as the man turned the key in the ignition and drove away, and it settled into a kind of comfort, knowing that its purpose was to obey and please, suffer degradation and dehumanization with pleasure, and get fucked and flogged and fucked again, any way and by anyone it's belove student, Master Francesco chose, now and forevermore.