Cow Pt 02 Ditzy Doggy Daze

Under the expert, extra-curricular, tutelage of Madam Edith, I was soon back in contention for the satisfactory completion of my studies. But I was a pet project for the Professor -- something had obviously marked me out, in her eyes, as worthy of her attention and, the perfectionist that she was, she would not be satisfied before I was the best student the University had ever produced. Also, I was not just her pet project but her pet, now living with her -- albeit naked in a cage most of the time -- and under her protection. This meant she would be keeping me around as long as possible, eking out the maximum time allowable for students to complete their degrees and, perhaps, wrangling a bit extra as the fates and the University bureaucracies -- which were even more formidable than she was -- would allow her. Of course, I was still a whore -- but now I was her whore, and she was, effectively, my john: yes, I was now a proper whore, a prostitute. But now instead of being flotsam against the tide of student lust, unregulated and unmetered, the clients who serviced me were far more select and paid Madam Edith a pretty penny to use me, This money would help to pay the Professor for the time she was spending on me, although it was also a labour of love.

My favourite clients were those who came to her frequent parties, where I would be strapped to a table naked in the copious lounge area as a centre-piece. I was part conversation piece, part human furniture and part cum-dump, should any of the male guests take a fancy to either of my holes, arse or mouth. As I was strapped down, I had to do whatever I had to do in situ, to which end I was catered to by a maid who often, when attentions were elsewhere, squeeze my precum-dripping cock or even crawl under to taste it, occasionally inducing me to pee so she could drink from the tap, as 'twere. And that's not all she tasted, either -- 'though her favourite trick with my arse was to stick her hand up there to stroke my prostate and milk me. It wasn't much work on her part as, because the gape was quite noticeable, especially after the results of my incontinence despite which, also, it was well-enough lubricated with enough of the deposits of the party's male guest to revitalise a seized engine, her five-fingered salute would violate my battle-weary sphincter with ease on her part and a frisson of joy despite all on mine.

And then there was the walking.

Well, dogs need to be walked, don't they? Funny thing about London -- well, most big cities -- is the complete anonymity it can afford and, therefore, the sort of things you can get away with in the right areas with the right amount of chutzpah. Madam Edith lived in Soho.

"Come on, girl, time for walkies!"

The Professor let me out of the cage and left me wondering what I was going to wear, and where were we going. The latter question would be answered in due time, but for the first...

"You're not serious?" I asked this because she produced for me a doggy collar in pink with the name Daisy on it, surrounded with hearts; what looked like an elongated toffee apple, but with a dog's tail tangentially protruding from it and, last but most telling, a furry-type doggy mask matching the tail.

She gave me a whack with a handy Penang Lawyer-type cane behind my legs which brought me, sobbing, to my knees. The sudden shock of the intrusion of the toffee-apple to my arsehole turned my sob to a yelp.

"Stay down", she commanded, continuing: "And don't you ever even think of questioning my judgement, girl. I know what I'm doing. You don't want me to send you back to your strait-laced parents telling them what a slutty little whore girl their little boy has become, do you?" I'll be honest, the question thrilled me as much as I was horrified -- but I couldn't be that cruel. "Now", she said after securing the collar and the mask, "come".

Well versed as I was with open-air, public nudity, this nudity was public-public. Back in the chapel-and-rugby valleys of Wales, and especially in the sleepy sheep-fuelled villages of Breconshire, never mind Winston Churchill's boots, your reputation would be laid bare for all to see before even the explanation had turned down the quilt to arise from slumber in the face of such outrageous behaviour. I felt a strain on my tiny boyhood as it tugged into a sort of erection.

"You see, girl", said Madam Edith, as if picking up my thoughts, and observing with glee my genital difficulties, "what you need to remember is that, in London, everyone tries so hard to avoid so many things. Eye-contact, conversation, friendliness. Naturally, thinking the person who comes up to you is either a cut-purse or a charity mugger is as good a reason to keep yourself to yourself as any, I suppose. Point the second -- people have expectations and, in a busy metropolis like this, if you don't measure up to expectations, well, they'll fill in the blanks for you. Unless, of course, danger looms large, in which case it'll give you a swift kick in the bollocks, male or female, it doesn't discriminate, and make free with your attentions. That said, we wouldn't be doing this in somewhere like Whitechapel, either, for obvious reasons. Now, the third part is, I'm well known and well-enough tolerated in these parts to get away with practically anything that doesn't hurt or deprive anyone and, while the laws of nudity in this country sort of skirt around nudity for a sexual purpose and this is, technically, sexual, it's not hurting anyone so those in the know mind their own business whilst those naive saps who see things that aren't there are soon convinced they saw nothing. That you're hung like a sapling willow helps too, of course."

We rounded into the throng of Wardour Street where, lo and behold, nobody noticed anything untoward. They saw me, of course -- all the better to avoid trampling me into the pavement or kicking my head in -- both of which, I'm sure, would have been de rigeur in the less culturally adaptive parts of the city whose inhabitants were prone to riot when someone accidentally mis-spelled the name of their favourite food. Indeed one or two of the locals, who knew Madam Edith, would remark about me when they said hello.

"Hello Edith -- I must say, that's a lovely looking dog you've got there", exclaimed one woman as her perfectly manicured nails described my spine. My pre-cum threatened to breach the bounds of my foreskin. "Have you had... errr... him long?

"Oh, hello, Jen -- hows the underworld? Yeah, picked her -- well, he's practically female: look at the size of his tackle -- up about a fortnight ago. She'd been slutting around the University like one of your whores -- a real slut for the boys in the dorm, to start with. Actually, got time for a drink?"

The ladies found a pub and we sat outside. "Baileys? -- I'll get it."

The Professor went in to order drinks, leaving me with Jen. "Now then, little puppy, let's have you", she said, her fingers closing around my little boy package. I leaked a little pre-cum on her fingers.

"Oh, it's like that is it? You'll slut for anyone, am I right?"

I didn't know what to say so, as I was wearing a doggy mask and enjoying a matching butt-plug tail, I simply replied with a woof.

Jen's fingers trailed my pre-cum over the skin on my back, barely touching: it was giving me shivers of pleasure. I wagged my tail, the weight of my butt-plug pleasingly torturing my back passage. "Okay little doggie", she continued -- "let's see if your little leaking acorn can grow into a mighty oak, or if you really are a wee girlie."

Jen fondled my berries as I slowly produced more pre-cum. "What lovely hairless nuts you have, little doggie -- I bet mummy Edith has lots of fun playing with those. What does she do? Fondle them? Squeeze them?" She squeezed them -- I whimpered. "Pull them, perhaps?" Ditto. I whimpered some more. "Oooh, what a cute little puppy you are", she cooed joyfully as she spotted my small appendage, wagging a line of pre-cum below it. "You really are a girl, aren't you", she noted, as my evident excitement -- just increased by her pronouncement -- flowed from the unmanly nub -- "I can see why she likes you!"

The drinks arrived, and a waiter brought out a bowl for me, which he placed lovingly before me, lingering slightly too long for mere friendliness as Madam Edith gave him a large tip. "How are you enjoying the hound? I can see there's pre-cum everywhere -- you really are awful", she joked.

"I can't help it, Edie, babe, she's so cute -- yes you are, you're so cute, mummy Jen is going to have to steal you away!" Madam Edith laughed at the last part, directed at me -- especially when I wagged my tail vigorously, letting out globs of pre-cum which described an arc which included the ladies' bare legs.

The ladies laughed some more and then chatted about old times. Then the Professor said "If you like the dog, come along to some of my parties, when you can really get to know her."

I barked excitedly and the ladies laughed some more before parting ways. Then Madam Edith walked me to Soho Square, where I was let off the leash. I was very nervous around the other dogs, which was very perspicacious of me -- especially when they came sniffing at my arsehole and occasionally licking my balls. The professor teased me and said that if I wasn't very well behaved, she'd remove my butt-plug, which made me press my legs together. I came.

"You disgusting little bitch", she exclaimed. In truth, I came because the act of locking my legs together had compounded the actions of Mistress Jen, and not because of any perverted notions of doggies doing what doggies do given half a chance, although I suppose the latter was a fair conclusion to jump to in the circumstances. Then again, there was always the possibility that the Professor's outrage was a confection of the play dungeons I had overheard her talking about with Jen. Logically, it all made sense -- unless two and two really did make five.

I was in a ditzy doggy daze.