A Dog's Life

On a cold wet day in January she opens her front door, steps outside, locks it, and walks into the rain. The water runs into her hair and down her face. It drips and hits her skirt. She shakes her head, wipes her hand across her chin. Her skin is cold.

At work she sits and turns on her computer and adjusts her chair - a ritual she does unthinkingly every day. It's not that it gets moved - just that she likes the familiarity, the routine. She makes coffee. Strong, black. She stirs it slowly with a spoon, even though there's no sugar in it. She doesn't take sugar. It cloys her teeth. It sits heavy. It's not something she needs. She drinks the coffee.

She works. She writes, she thinks, she speaks on the phone. At ten minutes to twelve her phone rings once more - she answers. She speaks a few words. She hangs up. She looks around her - nothing is out of the ordinary. Nobody has noticed - but how could they? There is nothing to notice - nothing is out of the ordinary. She is just an office worker speaking on the phone. For a second she panics that someone - management - may be listening. Then she calms herself - of course they're not. Are they?

At noon she stands, puts on her coat, walks out. The office is empty anyway - meetings. Outside, she hurries and waves at a cab or two. Eventually one stops. She says something to the driver and climbs in. He drives off. She plays with her phone, not concentrating. When they stop she is surprised - here already. Where did the time go, where had her mind been? She feels dislocated - almost as though this isn't her at all but someone else. Who it might be is, however, out of her reach. A part of her wants it to be someone else - she shouldn't be doing this. It's...dangerous, she knows. It scares her. She can't not do it, nonetheless. She can't just walk away.

She lets herself in. The flat is warm and quiet. She goes to the kitchen and drinks water from a glass. Her mouth is dry. She doesn't know if she is alone. She thinks she might be, but isn't sure. She wants to be sure and she isn't.

She walks into the bedroom. It is dark with shadows - the curtains are drawn - and seemingly abandoned. She looks at the bed and then, from behind, strong hands grip her arms just above the elbows and push her forward. She doesn't make a sound - she knows better than that. Her face hits the bed, her arse forced into the air and her legs straight. She can breathe, but only just. Her heart beats. A warm feeling of fear hits her. Her stomach contracts. She can see nothing much, and then something tight and constricting is forced over her head and she can see nothing at all. Whatever it is has only one hole, which is roughly positioned over her mouth. She gulps in air. She loses direction - which way is which? The material on her face is tight, smooth. Her senses are dulled yet sharpened. Every hair on her body responds.

Hands at her skirt, pulling the hem upwards. She shifts her legs, spreading them slightly. The hands are rough, strong. She can't move. Her legs are exposed, then her arse and suddenly her skirt is over her hips. The hands shift, to her forearms. They are pulled behind her, roughly, and she feels pain. Something is wrapped around her wrists and pulled tight. Thin rope or ribbon bites, her skin retracts. The hands let go - yet she can't move her arms.

Silence. Nothing - not a sound. Then a rush of something - air or something else, something unknown - and a searing pain explodes across her arse. She wants to gasp but holds it. Silence is her only aim. Total silence. That, and taking what comes. Whatever comes.

Three more times she senses or feels or hears movement and three more times her arse is whipped in quick succession - which is cruel. So that's how it will be today - cruel. She feels herself respond - her body reacts. She is wet now, she knows. Her belly contracts - is she allowed? Yet? It doesn't matter any more, because thinking about it makes it only worse. She tries to picture something - anything - to take her mind elsewhere but all she can see is her own body, dripping.

The hands are back and she is forced to roll over. Fingers at her shirt, first pulling it from the waistband of her tangled skirt and then at the buttons. Roughly it is unfastened then pulled backwards and down her arms to the wrist where it sits, useless, against her restraints. She pictures her bra - pale and plain. She should have worn something else - something sexier. Something she knows would bring pleasure, bring compliments, bring relief from further pain. She thinks she hears a sound - it might be disappointment. She understands. She has made a mistake - despite all the teaching she has been given and despite all the time spent on her, she has made a mistake. She bites her lip and determines not to do it again. She contracts inwardly - she is as useless as she is told. Inside the hood she screws up her eyes. She will pay for that, she knows.

Fingers she can't see pull her head upwards slightly and then something tight and wide is wrapped around her neck and secured, pulling the hood ever tighter. There is a metallic click and then she is dragged by the neck, first to a sitting position and then off the bed altogether and onto the floor. Her hands behind her, she falls painfully onto her face and is then pulled up to a begging half crouch.

Walk, bitch. The first words are loud, dominant, shocking. She crawls forwards, her face dragging as she fights to move. Her head hits something - something cold and hard. Ceramic. It moves . Her bowl. She lifts her head slightly.

Eat. She eats. She can't tell what it is - but she eats. It is cold and has no real taste. It covers her face, and swallowing is hard, and when she feels the loose end of her lead crack across her bare arse she knows she must have spilled some, missed some. Her arse stings and feels hopelessly vulnerable. There for anything. Ready for anything, and what can she do about it? Nothing.

She empties her bowl, licks it as clean as she can without seeing. It is removed and then, almost kindly, another is put in it's place.

Drink. The word is gentler, warmer. She laps at the water. It eases her throat and slides down. She is thirsty and empties the bowl and it is replaced.

Drink.

Three times she drinks and three times her bowl is replenished. There are more words but she can't hear them, only their gentle, soothing tone. She empties the third bowl.

Now, down. Lie down. Good dog.

She relaxes onto the floor. Her covered face slides across the carpet. Her breathing is loud in her ears, echoed and yet constrained by the hood. Her senses are alert but limited to the gap between her eyes and the material which holds her. She thinks it is leather, maybe rubber. It doesn't give, doesn't let her skin breathe. She begins to sweat. Beads of it run down her face and she is reminded of the rain. She wants to scratch herself, wipe herself. She is helpless.

Fingers at her neck, stroking. Absent mindedly stroking. She can sense them but knows they have no meaning for her - they aren't for her. They scratch, stroke, occasionally pinch her skin. She still hasn't made a sound - something of which she is proud. It might make up for the bra. Might - but she doubts it.

She lies still on the floor. She is waiting her next instruction but aware it could be hours away. Fingers still at her neck, her back. They touch her bra. Her spine. She drifts off, relaxing. She drifts off, content.

She snaps awake. She doesn't know why - nothing has changed. She is a little cold - she can feel a light breeze on her bare back and skin. Then the fingers are at her wrists and she feels her arms freed.

Sit. Good dog. She gets onto all fours. Her lead pulls at her neck. She walks. Round and round she walks on all fours, pulled lightly whenever she slows. Her knees ache. Her arms ache. Her neck droops. She needs to piss. Suddenly the three bowls of water come back to her - her thirst, her greed. Round and round they walk, until the only thing she can feel is her full bladder and her desperate need to piss. She feels it well inside her, push against her belly and almost dribble out of her. In the end she can't wait any longer. She spreads her legs slightly and stops walking and her bladder protests one more time - she can't do this to herself, the sense of dislocation, of being someone else but her, erupts - and the relief comes and she squirts piss through her knickers and feels it run, warm, down her legs. The relief is immense - almost sexual. Her muscles twist and contract - just like they do when she is allowed to orgasm - and she can't stop. Her piss runs out of her and won't stop. She can smell it. She can almost taste it. She shrinks - she knows she is disgusting. Not even dogs piss down their own legs.

Oh for fuck's sake. She feels her neck jerked upwards. You dirty bitch.

She is dragged to the bed. Rough hands spread her legs. A towel or cloth or something wipes furiously at her legs, at her piss-stained cunt. Fingers probe her, cleaning and upbraiding her all at once. She whimpers inwardly - still no sound, still she clings to that hope. The lead flogs down on her arse once more, twice more, and then hard across her hips and between her legs, catching her hard little clit with a whipcrack and she fails at last; she gasps with the pain and the humiliation. She makes a sound.

The flogging stops. The room is silent, ominous. She strains to hear - anything will do but it is reassurance she needs and it doesn't come. Instead her soaking, stinking underwear is pulled aside and she feels a heaviness behind her on the bed and fingers and then a thick and hard presence at the entrance of her cunt and then a cock she doesn't recognise slides into her. Hands grasp her hips, pulling her backwards and further onto it. She rocks back, opens herself. Whoever it is begins to fuck her. He slides almost out of her, almost gently, and then confounds the care he seems to be taking by pounding back into her so hard she fears she will split. She doesn't know how much of this she can take - but knows she doesn't have a choice.

Movement in front of her, the heavy bed again. She is suddenly scared, confused. Hands take her head and lift it, fingers probe the hole over her mouth and then, shockingly, she feels another cock forced into her mouth. She opens wide, her lips forced apart. She tastes salt and feels smooth skin and a slight stickiness and then she has the sense of being speared. She has a cock in her cunt and another in her mouth and they are fucking her so hard she doesn't know whether the pain is from her stretching cunt or from her gagging throat. She senses their urgency, focuses for a moment on the cock in her mouth and uses her tongue and wets it with her spit, and then her senses are dragged back to her cunt and her wetness and her mouth stills. Sometimes it stills so much that she is slapped, across her cheek. She is trying, but it is too much. Tears prickle. She is slapped some more. She sucks, and sucks, and the remorseless fucking goes on.

They stop. Both of them, gone. Her hood is ripped off. Light blinds her - she can see nothing still. She is still on all fours, by the edge of the bed. Her eyes accustom and there in front of her are her two cocks, her two tormentors. She hears sounds, movements, guttural voices. Her head is forced backwards, her mouth falls open, and one after the other those two cocks come on her face. She feels the warmth and the stickiness and it runs over her lips and her chin and drips onto her breasts.

Stay there, don't move, lie down. She does as she is told. Her breathing slowly returns to normal. She wants to wipe her face but dare not. She licks her lips and tastes one or both of their come. She swallows a little.

Leave it bitch.

Strong hands again, first slapping her face then her breasts. She is picked up, four hands. They carry her then lift her and drop her into the bath. There is no water and she clatters into the bottom.

Sit there. Wait. And shut up.

She sits silent and still. Still her face is covered in come, drying now. Then she feels water splash on her. On her feet, on her breasts, finally on her face. She feels it and raises her head. It washes over her, relents, stops. Then again, exactly the same. She hears laughter.

That'll teach the bitch not to piss herself.

Back at the office she adjusts her chair, makes coffee, answers her phone. She works, writes, thinks. Occasionally she looks around - nobody can see anything out of the ordinary. She is just like any of the rest of her colleagues, nothing out of the ordinary. She stretches slightly, lifts herself out of her chair. Her arse stings slightly, her skin tight. She wonders why. She wonders why. She licks her lips but all she can taste is her lipstick. She smiles. She will kiss her husband later, and all he will taste is her lipstick.