Into the Dog House

Sitting at his desk, trying not to watch the clock, Gregory received and opened an email from his boss--characteristically friendly in address, cringingly apologetic despite that he didn't have to be, he requested that Gregory please attend a meeting at 5 p.m. Their little IT company provided customer service websites, and it appeared that one of their larger clients was making some demands around pushing their schedule forward, at the last minute.

Wincing, he responded to the email in the affirmative, and tried to think. Maybe it would be a ten minute reset session, amping everyone up for work over the weekend. Maybe it would be a two-hour long strategy meeting, the more likely alternative. His team tended towards argument and debate about literally everything, and so the prospect of a quick and easy conversation was remote. Could he make up an excuse? He wasn't much of a liar.

But the truth was out of the question.

Sorry, boss, I have to be home by 6 p.m. on the dot to play puppy for my wife, and if I don't, she might not let me out of chastity tomorrow.

The concern wasn't really the chastity, if Gregory was being honest with himself, and he'd had a little time to try to be. He was wearing a toy on his cock, and if he really wanted, he could go out to the nearest hardware store, purchase some cheap bolt cutters, and get rid of the delicate little lock that was closing his cage. He didn't think such an action would destroy his marriage, even, but it would certainly be a definitive end to this game they'd gotten themselves into. Maybe an end to something more than just a game.

Which was the rub. He didn't want it to end like that. But he also didn't want Rachel to refuse him the release he'd earned.

Picking up his phone, he quickly texted her:

last minute meeting @ 5. Will be late + give an eta when I know it. Sorry.

A minute later, she replied:

?

Right, Gregory had forgotten. While almost all their puppy play took place between the hours of 6 p.m. and when Rachel was finally ready to sleep, she'd made a stipulation about texting.

Gregory copypasted the same message into a new text, but this time, started it with a dog emoji, and ended it with 'woof!' Which felt deeply silly, but he imagined she must get a kick out of it.

She replied quickly, with one word:

disappointing.

And he could understand her getting a kick out of it, because maybe seeing her husband forced to bark in his text messages had a similar effect on her as this one word did on him. A small trickle of dread that, for whatever fucking reason, made his insides clench, the subtle feeling of temporarily redirected bloodflow that gently put him to mind about the fact he was wearing a steel cage around his cock, in his briefs and slacks.

He'd gotten good at ignoring it throughout the week, but every now and then, the knowledge he was wearing it while sitting at his desk at work, or waiting in line for coffee, shunted him immediately into sexual frustration, only intensified by the knowledge there'd be no relief for him.

He texted back, first with the dog emoji, and then:

can I make it up to you? Woof woof.

Long minutes passed. Gregory concentrated on his work, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes until the meeting. If he could only focus up, take his mind off his cock and whatever waited for him later that night, and tomorrow--

Rachel texted back.

Go to the bathroom. Use one of the big stalls.

Gregory froze at his desk, staring down at the phone. Now, he could well and truly feel his cock pressing against the bars of his prison, his head immediately emptying of everything he'd been working on. Robotically, he stood up and headed for the bathroom. The cage, obviously, tamped down on any kind of real erection, which was just as well.

Fortunately, no one was there, and Gregory quickly stepped into the disabled stall, closing and locking it.

Dog emoji.

Woof.

Rachel texted back.

Good boy. Here is how you can make it up to me. Pull your pants and underwear down around your ankles. Sit.

Heart racing, Gregory undid his trousers, feeling the back of his neck prickle at what he was doing. Setting the phone on the ground, he slid his pants and underwear down, cringing at the unusual feeling of not just his groin or ass exposed in the bathroom, but the whole backs of his thighs, his knees, his shins. He lowered himself to kneel. Why did they make the gap between the floor and the door so wide?

Rachel had already texted back.

Is my puppy excited to come home?

Dog emoji.

woof woof!

It was a minute before Rachel replied, Gregory left kneeling on cold tile, pants behind him and gathered around his ankles, trying to ignore the urgency he felt wrapped up in steel until he gave into temptation, and wrapped his hand around it. Despite that he'd been doing this for five or six days straight, he hadn't really toyed with it much on his own. It felt like an alien appendage, something that had replaced the normal feel and weight and girth of his penis with some smaller thing, oddly sensitive, covered in metal.

His phone vibrated, and he quickly stopped touching himself as if caught, somehow.

Prove it. Take a video of you wagging your tail. I know your real tail is at home, so you will have to make do.

His stomach clenched, and for a long moment, he simply knelt in placed, staring at her words. He understood what she meant for him to do, and as if the action itself wouldn't be humiliating enough, she was asking him to deliver her video evidence of it. Something that would, more than likely, exist long after they were done playing, in her keeping as possessively hoarded as the key to his cage hung from her neck.

She texted him again, before he could finish processing:

and I want you to bark.

The small groan he made echoed back at him, free hand curling into a tight fist on his bare thigh, cock twitching in its cage. It wasn't that he was trying to decide how to get out of this -- it was that he knew he was going to do it, and he was going to have to live with the consequences. And the thought of those consequences, of her having this piece of him, only made him ache.

Breathing shakily, he turned on the camera function, avoiding looking at his own face as he quickly tried to find the right angle. He could position it so as to capture his lower half, a high-angled shot of his bare knees on the tile, his pale thighs, but he had to pull his shirt up to properly expose his groin, where his straining cock was visible in its silver, pubic hair sparsely well-groomed.

Just do it, he willed himself. Get it over with so you can calm the fuck down.

Clumsily, he hit record, and felt a fresh shock of arousal when the recording symbol blinked, as if its gaze somehow made the air colder around his naked skin. Then, he moved his hips, finding the right amount of movement to get his caged cock to jiggle back and forth, like a stumpy little tail. As quietly as he could get away with, he gave a small bark.

The door to the bathrooms banged open, and his heart leapt in his chest. With sweaty hands, he hit stop on recording and hurriedly, clumsily got to his feet, pants still around his ankles, sitting back down on the toilet as heavy footsteps marched over to the urinals on the other side of the stall door. The sound of a zipper followed the familiar splash of pissing.

And Gregory was still recovering from his heart attack, cock now at its maximum capacity in its limiting cage. Irrationally, he stayed unmoving and scarcely breathing in his stall while the other man finished his business, only letting out a long breath when then came the sound of the door opening back up, closing.

He should watch the video, make sure he actually filmed it right, that his bark was audible, but he could not bring himself to do so. Rushed, he sent her the clip, and pulled his pants back up.

She didn't reply right away, and so he spent the next fifteen minutes distractedly getting ready for the meeting, feeling vaguely sweaty and unkempt, and in desperate need of an orgasm he didn't have access to. He'd calmed down by the time the meeting started, and it wasn't until they were twenty minutes in that his phone buzzed with a message.

Good boy.

***

It was a little after 7 p.m. that he finally found himself on the other side of the door to his apartment. The anxiety had lessened since he'd sent his video (while trying to put its implications out of his mind), but he still felt rushed, wanting to minimise his lateness. Twisting the doorknob, he frowned when he found it was locked.

He fished out his keys, unlocking it, only for the door to stop short several inches on its chain. Without thinking, he called out in confusion, "Rachel?"

Soft footsteps on the other side, and Rachel appeared in the narrow gap of the door, peering up at him with a half-cocked smile. "There he is," she said, her voice pitched in that talking-to-animals tone that was beginning to have a Pavlovian affect on him -- in specific, on his cock. "Almost."

This was different. Rachel had laid down some ground rules, days ago -- he would come home, let himself in. He would not acknowledge her, or be acknowledged by her, and go straight to their bedroom. There, he'd puppy up and emerge as if he'd never left, Rachel minimising all traces of husband in favour of dog.

Uncertain of what was expected of him, he stood, not wanting to disobey her talking rules -- but he was dressed, standing, locked outside.

"Does puppy wanna come home?" she asked. "Go on. Beg."

Greg's mouth went dry, and he glanced down the hallway. They shared this space with two other doors -- one neighbour who seemed to only slink out of their apartment around midnight and midday, and the other with a conventional nine-to-five schedule. It was brightly lit and silent.

Slowly, he set his bag down beside himself, and knelt down. It felt strange to be doing this, fully dressed, and stranger to be doing it outside the privacy of their own home. He felt the back of his neck flush red, desperately praying someone wasn't going to suddenly manifest in the quiet hallway. Maybe he could pass it off as having dropped something.

He drew his hands up to his chest, folded at the wrists in begging pose, letting out an impatient breath as he looked up at her. Rachel was waiting expectantly, and Gregory swallowed hard, before offering a quiet, hopeful sounding doggish yip. She smiled, and slipped her hand through the door gap, offering him her fingers. Breath caught high in his chest, he quickly leaned forward to nuzzle at and lick her knuckles, hoping enthusiastic compliance would encourage her to speed the process up, rather than do more.

"Here you go," she said, switching hands to hold something out to him -- his collar, dangling from her fingers. He hesitantly took it, and she closed the door sharply. He heard the rattle of the chain being undone.

Working fast, he loosened his tie and shirt collar, heart starting to race. He didn't know what she wanted from him, the rules loose and malleable enough that it made him feel dizzy, but he knew where his collar was meant to go, so he stayed kneeling, quickly wrapping it around his throat and doing up the buckle. Nothing, he knew, was stopping him from simply entering the apartment, on two feet, no collar at all.

And yet, here he was, kneeling outside the apartment he paid rent on, dog collar hastily fastened, and wondering whether he was allowed to open the door.

A dog wouldn't do that. Open it, that is.

Tentatively, he set his hand against the door, and then curled his fingers, and scraped his blunt fingernails against the smooth surface. Once, twice more, and the door opened wide.

Rachel reached past him, picking up his bag. "Go on," she said, reaching to swat his ass with a hand. "In you go."

Relieved, Gregory crawled his way inside -- awkward, still, in his slacks and dress shirt, his shoes and underwear. He made to head for the bedroom, but Rachel spoke up: "Ah-ah! Over there." He looked to see her pointing towards the cage by the TV, which he saw had some items strewn about inside. Crawling over to it instead, he saw his mitts, his harnesses and socks, his ears and kneepads, and a length of fluffy tail of blonde-golden fur, attached to a small silver butt plug.

"Get in," she said, locking the front door, setting his bag aside and moving to the couch where she had her laptop set aside. She was, as usual, dressed in simple clothing, barefoot in sweatpants and tank top, face clean of the day's makeup, as if enjoying a comfortable night alone.

Gregory did as he was told, awkwardly climbing inside the cage, pushing aside the items to make room for himself. From there, he started to undress despite the cramped confines, levering off his shoes and setting them down outside the cage, out of the way of where the door would swing. His clothes followed, his socks and underwear, until all he was wearing was his collar and his cage.

He hooked a finger around a bar in the cage door, and pulled it closed, and latched it. Rachel didn't look up from her laptop, but he detected a faint smile appearing on her face.

Putting everything on was not quite as awkward, able to stay kneeling and bent over while he secured his harnesses over his body, tugging socks on up over his knees, followed by his kneepads. Then, he picked up the tail, and glanced around the cage for the bottle of lube that Rachel had started leaving on the bedside table. He'd managed to insert one of these things the previous evening, nervously coating his whole hand in slippery oil to make the going easier.

However, Rachel had not left the bottle in here with him, and he looked at the toy he was holding. Smooth metal, big enough that it wouldn't slip out easily, but smaller than the silicone tail. He could speak up, and endure being gagged for the rest of the evening. He could whine, try to communicate through puppy sounds what he needed, and he could feel embarrassment at the prospect, of succeeding or failing at it, strangle around him. He wasn't sure what would happen if he simply left his tail out of it -- maybe nothing, maybe it would be seen as non-compliance despite this whole evening, maybe he wouldn't be let out of his cage until he was in full puppy regalia or until it was time to go to bed.

He could imagine all kinds of scenarios, and all Rachel was doing was sitting quietly on the couch, typing on her laptop, having not even closed and latched the cage he was in. No, he'd done that.

Gregory stayed kneeling and thinking for another long minute, then gathered up the saliva in his mouth to coat his tongue in it. Then, with a view to leave behind a thick coating of it, he started licking the silver plug, focusing on getting it good and wet. He did the same to his fingers, and used them, first, to reach down between his legs and coat his asshole in moisture. He knew from experience that saliva was a terrible substitute, that the coming out would be worse than an uncomfortable going in, but it was better than nothing.

He glanced over to notice that Rachel was watching him, expression unreadable, and felt his body warm up all over, a fully body blush, and lowered his gaze. He reached down with the tail, pressing the plug against his hole, slowly working it in. Resistance pulled tight around the intrusion, but it wasn't painful -- and then an uncomfortable-feeling stretch as the widest curve of it slipped past his hole, followed by relief as he relaxed around the tapered neck.

The fluffy tail dangling about an inch out from his ass, tickling his thighs when it swung.

Taking a shaky breath in, Gregory finished the ritual by tugging his paws on, locking them in place, reducing his hands that had been typing software code and emails all day into blunt paws.

He looked up, and Rachel had gone back to her laptop.

But, strangely, there was no urgent feeling to leave his cage. He could feel arousal as a constant subtle throb, could feel a desire to be touched by his wife, but after all his worrying, after a long frustrating meeting, after a day spent in anticipation of coming home, the cage was simple, and the blankets were soft. He lowered himself down, folding an arm to rest his head against, knees curled up towards his chest, sinking into the absence of expectation that he be anything but a dog. A good boy.

He remained laying down as he heard Rachel get up, and heard her collecting up his discarded shoes and clothing, taking them away while he slid into something that was not really sleep, but half-dozing, seconds slipping into minutes.

Gregory had no concept of how long he'd been lying there when the cage gently rattled, and the door opened. He lifted his head, peering at the upside down visage of his wife standing over him.

"Come on," she urged, patting her thigh. "Dinner time."

Dinner was the usual fare, refrigerated old-tasting rice and flavourless chicken in his red plastic bowl, ass up in the kitchen as he finished it off. He listened to Rachel chatting on her phone as he wiped his face with the edge of his paw, before crawling out to the living room to join her, feeling a prickle of interest where his own tail swung against and teased the backs of his thighs.

As soon as he appeared, she lifted something in her hand -- his rope toy. Gregory started towards her, then flinched when she tossed it over his head, where it landed on the floor behind him.

"Go get it, fetch," she encouraged, nodding at him until he turned around, and he heard her say into her phone, "Oh, yeah, I'm dogsitting this week."

Gregory flinched, but continued, lowering his head to pick up the rope toy. With its thick knots and tasselled ends dangling on either side of his mouth, he crawled back to her, where she absently reached out to carefully take it from him.

"This lady from work," she continued to explain. "She has this doofy Golden Retriever she wants me to look after while she's on a business trip."

She tossed the rope toy again, and Gregory crawled off to go fetch it, bringing it back, trying not to groan at the feeling of the little plug in his ass jostle with each movement, tail bouncing.

"He's very sweet, but badly trained."

Rachel held up the rope toy, waggling it in the air. Gregory could feel his pride burning, evaporating, but knew what she wanted, and he sat up to beg, trying to reach for it with his mouth. She teasingly tickled his face with its ends, evading his attempts to close his jaws around it.

"And, uh, kind of awkward, but -- he's just, like,

real

horny."

From the phone, Gregory heard a shrill cackle. One of her girl friends, maybe Holly. Or Jenna? They were all kind of identical.

"Like, he's been fixed." Rachel stuck out her foot, and nudged it against his cock and balls -- gently, but he quickly folded back down with a gasp. "But that's not stopping him. He's just constantly on my leg."

She threw the rope toy again, and Gregory moved after it, feeling hyperaware of his cock trying to stiffen in its cage, hyperaware of how he must look, bare ass jiggling in its straps and holding its tail as he shuffled as fast as he could after the rope toy -- all the while she spoke on the phone, demeaning him to someone he knew, who he'd probably met over a BBQ.

And proving her point, feeling arousal like a spasm at each little barb.

He brought the rope toy back, but clamped his jaws firmly around it when she went to take it away. Her smile broadened, and she playfully shook it while he held on.

"Tomorrow?" she queried, to some muffled thing he couldn't make out. "Yeah, I still have dog duty, but I could really do with a good margarita. Why, what's the occasion?"

He released the toy to her, and Rachel barely looked at him as she threw it again. When Gregory didn't move, alert to the conversation, she snapped her fingers. "

Fetch,

" she ordered, and he reluctantly backed up, turned, crawled after it again.