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!"
