A Dog/salve Weeend Chapter 21

21

John didn't wake up. It was a slow ascension into hell. It was a bad, miserable feeling he desperately avoided by staying asleep, begging sleep to take him back into its numb embrace.

"Wakey, wakey..." the sing song voice from above prompted with sequential pokes of a big toe in his back.

His eyes opened slightly to a world spinning out of control. He had been sleeping on hard ground again, but not the dirt of the kennel he was becoming accustom to. His head lay on a roughly weaved, dark blue material with lighter blue lines running through it. It hit John that it was the rug in Randy and Valerie's master bedroom he had only seen maybe once before.

He stretched his legs as best he could. The tips of his fingers tapped the inside of the steel mitts imprisoning his hands. Yep. He was still chained up, hopeless and helpless as a dog/slave.

The air around him swirled as a foot brushed over and around him. "You were such a good boy last night. I figured you deserved a treat. Did you have enough to drink?" The voice receded into what must be another room. The master bathroom, perhaps.

"Ashley said you were quite the drinker. Self medicating yourself through a human world you weren't meant to live in."

Johns mouth was dry. His lips stuck to the canine teeth dominating his mouth. His tongue dehydrated with only the taste of women on it. A small puddle of spittle built up under his mouth during his slumber. Precious liquid he most certainly couldn't afford to let escape.

He let his mind avoid the harsh physical devastation of his body from the night before by trying to remember how he ended up here. The pieces of the puzzle were scattered. First there was Francy. Poor Francy. Short, pear shaped and overall unattractive. Her desperate situation last night along with the whiskey made him vulnerable to her needs, lapping between her thighs trying to make her feel as wanted as he did being held in place by the collar and leash.

"You can't die on my bedroom rug. You're too big to haul out on my own," the disembodied voice said from another space and time.

Then there were more drinks. Not just the lapping of whiskey from a kitchen bowl sat down on the living room floor for him. No, Valerie herself was seeing to it as her fingers, exaggerated in length by the long nails, would tip up her glass letting John drink like a human.

"I need you to wake yourself up, Frisky! Randy's flying back in this afternoon to take a few days off with the family."

Randy. Randy... Oh, yeah. Valerie's husband. Met him one time over the course of living with Ashley. Busy guy. John opened one eye and spied the picture of Randy and Valerie in the traditional, loving and happy pose staring down at him from the master bedroom wall. He wanted them to stop looking at him. They wouldn't look at him if they knew what he was. A deranged human. A dog in a man's body. A passive, submissive beta male he tried so hard to hide.

Valerie's feet brushed by him. The stirred air on his clammy skin felt good and he wished she'd do it some more.

"You were fine after Francy. So who did you in then? Me or Georgia?"

Georgia. Valerie's other witness to his dog/slave contract.

Valerie made great use of his brilliantly subdued inhibitions. John remembered rolling over, playing dead, sitting up and begging all on Valerie's command and to the great amusement of all three women. John actually had a good time scampering about at their feet. He was a dog.

Georgia led him by the leash into the guest room once again. He knew what was expected and eagerly complied. After what will become an embarrassing display later as a dog in Valerie's living room, Georgia didn't even talk to him. She just pulled on the leash between her legs when she wanted more. Wanted it softer. Wanted it harder.

The rest was a mystery. Images of Valerie laughing and smiling. He remembered how she tasted... again. Now here he was on her bedroom floor.

"Here," Valerie said towering over him with her hand cupped as if holding something. "Sit up, boy. You can do it." John actually believed her and sat himself up, although begrudgingly so. She knelt down to him and tossed whatever she had cupped in her hand into his mouth. Pills. "This will make you feel better, pup." She followed up by putting a glass of water to his parched lips and tilted it back for him to swallow.

It was like living in a parallel world. Why was Valerie being so nice to him? The years before he disgusted her. Now that he was a dog, vulnerable and at her whim he could swear that she almost cared.

"What happened last night?" he asked.

"You were a happy dog/slave."

"Yeah, yeah... But in here. What happened?"

"Well, I had my fun. What's the point of owning a dog/slave if I can't have my fun?"

"Did we..."

"Absolutely not! For starters you are not getting on my bed. And second," she said standing over him fully dressed in yoga pants and t-shirt gesturing to his body, "not like that--all chained up like a dog."

That was good, John thought. At least she was honest. When she fulfills her side of the bargain for signing the dog/slave contract, he didn't want to miss it or so easily forget about it.

Again she bent over him and clipped the leash to his collar. "Come on, boy. Back out to the kennel." Valerie tugged on the leash to overcome John's lack of inertia. "You can sleep the rest of it off in the kennel."

That actually sounded good to John. His limbs felt sluggish as he followed her out to the kennel.

The lock clicked shut as Valerie assured John's imprisonment in the chain linked caged area.