Be My Dog

Be My Dog

Part 1

I Was A Busboy's Dog

by Kirk McCorkle

MM bd feet sneakers spit spanking

This is a work of erotic fiction. All participants are fictional, and are over eighteen years of age. If reading erotic fiction about adult male participants that involves sex, sexual servitude, bondage, and sneakers is illegal wherever you are, don't read any further. Try and erase all memories of what you have seen from your mind. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.

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I don't come here for the goddamned nachos, no matter what I tell anyone. And yeah, it's convenient to get to from my job, and they have good lunch specials, but the food's basically chile con cardboard. The waitrons are underpaid and dispirited, the noise levels are catastrophic, the decor is pure thrift-store kitsch.

And then he walks in, and everything else is forgotten. He strides through the swinging doors from the kitchen like he's walking onto a movie set, dish tub slung under one arm, making a waitress smile with a passing comment. In my head, he's got theme music. Hell, somewhere in my head he's starring in a whole series of porn movies which play at random intervals throughout my day.

I am, of course, an idiot. I'm almost twice his age, and I'm pretty good-looking, but he's not just in a different league, he's in a different world. I could imagine him naked in my bed, easily, but I couldn't begin to imagine talking to him, let alone asking him out.

I take my lunches here on Wednesdays and Fridays, and he's usually here. I eat my soggy tacos and I read stuff on my phone and every once in a while, he walks through and makes my week. Yeah, it does feel kind of pathetic sometimes. But he's that beautiful. And these days, I'm okay with keeping to myself.

So I'm leafing through something forgettable from my news feed and every once in a while he comes into my peripheral vision and it's like all the color in the room moves with him. He does his rounds with grace and style, staying effortlessly out of the way of customers and waitresses, clearing tables, filling water. He makes the cheap black Nikes and shiny black Chinos that the restaurant makes him wear look like they were designed for him.

And then he's coming straight for my table, looking at me and smiling, and I basically have a seizure. My heart is in my throat, and it feels like it's there because it's trying to make a hasty retreat from my chest through the most convenient exit. Just as he gets up to the table, I, of course, drop my fork onto my plate, where it sounds like it's announcing the Apocalypse.

"Can I get you some more chips?" He has a pleasant voice, deeper than I'd imagined. He was smiling at me.

A thin squeak came out of my throat. It was something like a yes, but it collided with my heart somewhere in my throat, and it came out a mutated and helpless version of the pleasant hearty 'yes' that I had planned.

"Sure thing," he said, and he reached for the mostly-empty bowl of chips. In doing so, he somehow dropped into slow motion, and I watched in rapt fascination as he leaned over the table, his arm sliding across my field of vision until my nose was about four inches from his armpit.

I had time to memorize the experience, since it lasted forever. The smooth skin of his arm, the texture of his polyester polo looking so crude next to it, the slight discoloration of the sweat stain in his pit, so faint it would be invisible from any farther away.

And his smell. I could say that he smelled like sweat and deodorant and manliness, and that would all be true, but in the moment all I could think of was that he smelled like summer.

I breathed him in.

As he stood up, he looked at me, and his smile had changed. It wasn't the cheerful, deferential grin he gave the customers anymore. It was arrogant, commanding, frightening. It was like seeing your favorite newscaster flash a shiv. And then he was gone, ducking off towards the salsa station.

He came back a couple of minutes later and put a bowl of chips and a bowl of salsa down on the table. He leaned forward, gave me that smile again, the one that made me feel like prey, and he said softly, "I spit in the salsa."

He straightened up, gave me his for-customers smile, and said, "Enjoy!"

And he walked off.

I knew I had to think something eventually, but there were so many thoughts queued up that it took me a while to pick one. It turned out to be a pretty idiotic one about the capsaicin in the salsa having killed off any germs he might have been carrying, but by the time I'd thought it I'd picked up a chip, dipped it in the salsa and the busboy's spit, and I'd brought it to my lips.

I've had salsa that was made by hand at my table in a restaurant that costs more for a meal than my busboy makes in a month. I've had salsa from a farmer's market in a town I won't name in New Mexico that will make your abuelita cry.

I have never tasted anything as delicious as this spit-laced salsa.

I opened my eyes, and there he was across the restaurant. He gave me his for-customers smile.

I looked down, and I took another bite.

When I left my table, I had stacked up my plates neatly, with the salsa bowl on top, scraped clean. I think I over-tipped the waitress by ten bucks. I didn't care, I was in the middle of what felt like the world's longest massive heart attack. I don't know what I expected, if I thought he was going to approach me or give me his number or what, but I just left the restaurant, looked about stupidly for a couple of moments, and then went back to work.

My cock was hard pretty much all weekend. It got bad enough that by Sunday I was wondering if my busboy had spit Cialis into my salsa. I'd never had a thing for spit, never even looked it up on the internet, but now all I could think of was that salsa. And him spitting in my mouth. I'd let him do that to me.

I thought about going in on Monday, but he worked on weekends, so he probably wouldn't be there. And anyway it would look weird. So I ate lunch at my desk, regretting the decision with every bite. Tuesdays and Thursdays I was always off-site with a client, forty minutes' drive away.

I arrived precisely on time on Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure I was walking like a marionette when I followed the hostess to my booth. I drank my water in about twelve seconds.

He didn't arrive until I'd been there nearly half an hour, and he breezed into the room with his usual aplomb. I saw him look over the restaurant like he was considering conquering it, and then his eyes hit me.

And moved on without acknowledging me.

I spent a while trying to think of a reaction he could have had that would have crushed me any more effectively, but came up blank.

Then he was coming up to my table, and he had bowls in his hands, and he said, "Chips and salsa?"

This time, I managed to stammer out "Yes."

"There you go." He put them down on the table, cleared some dishes away, gave me his for-customers smile, and left. If it wasn't for the hard-on trying to announce its presence in my pants to the world, anyone watching would have thought it was a completely normal interaction between customer and restaurant staff.

Had he spit in the salsa again? That was the question, fuck the existential Shakesperian crap. I dipped a chip into it, and tasted. It didn't come with the chorus of angels which, in retrospect, accompanied my first bite of the salsa he'd spit in on Friday. Instead, there was this flavor of uncertainty, of doubt. I might have been sampling his DNA, or it might have just been the usual tin-flavored tomato juice they served here. Whatever, I decided I didn't care.

He'd brought it to me. I'd eat it.

About halfway through the bowl, I caught him looking at me. He smiled his happy smile, and turned away.

I finished the bowl, finished my lunch, paid my check and left, and took my sweet time about all of it, but he didn't say anything else to me.

I very nearly convinced myself to call in sick to work on Thursday so I could go to lunch there.

The full-time porn festival that had been playing in my head since the incident last week had ground my productivity to nothing by Friday morning, and lunch took forever to arrive. I spent the last two minutes before noon literally staring at the clock in the corner of my screen.

And then the moment arrived, and I walked in, and there he was already, bent over a table near the door, his ass resplendent in his Dickies, his tucked-in polo shirt accentuating the lean muscles in his chest. I walked into a chair.

"Oh, I'm so sorry about that, Sir," he said. "Let me move that for you." He pushed the chair out of the way and ushered me to my booth. He brought me silverware and water. He told me the waiter would be there in a moment.

And the whole time, I think I was staring at him like a rabbit staring up at a hawk. He was just a busboy, polite, deferential, modest. And unmistakably menacing. Just behind that customer service smile, there was something lurking, about to pounce. On me. And I was sitting here waiting for the menu.

The waiter brought me chips and salsa when he showed up with the menu. And then I didn't see him, through the whole long wait for my lunch. The waiter arrived with the Friday special, a novel interpretation of albondigas that apparently involved furniture polish, and I spent the whole time I was eating watching the door to the kitchen like the comings and goings of the waitstaff was the latest episode of Game of Thrones.

The busboy made his entrance when I was almost done with my meal, and he came right over to my table, eyes fixed on me. I just sat there, my spoon quivering in my hand.

"Can I take these for you?" He gestured at the dishes on the table. I was only half done.

"Sure," I said.

He started clearing them off. "Would you like extra napkins?"

He'd just taken my food. "Umm, okay."

He looked me in the eyes and pulled a napkin out from under his arm. He put it on the table in front of me.

"There you go," he said, and took my dishes and left.

I picked up the napkin, and tried to look like I was using it for its intended purposes, but I was holding it to my nose and breathing in hard. It smelled like him, like I remembered his armpit smelling, deodorant and hard work, and pure refined industrial-grade sex. I opened my eyes and I saw him looking at me, and I didn't care. I looked right back at him, and I breathed in the smell of his sweat.

He smiled, and it wasn't his customer smile. I felt like that rabbit the moment the hawk notices it exists, and starts folding its wings for a dive.

And I just sat there. I pretended to read something on my phone. I pretended to answer an important email. I dabbed at my lips with the napkin, time and time again. He came and went from the kitchen, he walked past my table three times, but never acknowledged me at all.

I was going to be late back from lunch, and I couldn't delay any longer. I started getting up, and he was there behind me.

"Write your phone number on it and leave it," he said, and his voice wasn't one that generally gets used in customer service situations.

My cock, already half-hard from fantasies of taking the armpit-sweat napkin home and beating off to it furiously, became instantly, fully, and painfully erect. I stared at him as he walked off towards the kitchen, my cock doing its best to announce that yes, I was indeed looking at this teenage busboy's ass.

My heart was doing its best to batter its way out of my ribcage as I took the pen from the little credit card tray and wrote my phone number on the napkin. I turned it over. I put the pen back on the tray next to the mints. I thought about taking a mint, but that would erase the last traces of his smell from my nose.

I turned around and walked out.

I remember thinking that I should just take the napkin, use it to fuel my fantasies of hot busboy sex, and just never come here again. Just for future reference, that's what last chances look like. They look like a tiny little moment of hesitation before leaving your table at a Mexican restaurant.

For the next two hours I stared at my little Android phone like it was a radioactive rattlesnake. I think I got some work done. I really hope I double checked it before I sent it out. I kept wondering what I would do when he called. If he called while I was at work I could dash out the smoker's exit pretty fast.

Then I got a text.

'Send me a dick pic.'

Goddamn it.

'Look, I'm sorry, I don't even know if you're eighteen.' That was the hardest text message I'd ever had to write, as of yet.

The nanoseconds dragged on while I waited for some reply, any reply.

My phone lit up, and I lit up with it. He'd sent back a picture of his driver's license, with all the information except his picture and his birthdate blurred.

He was almost nineteen. So, the fantasies I'd been having weren't illegal, just depraved. Well, that was good to know.

'Can we go get dinner or something? I'd really like to get to know you.' I sent back.

What can I say, I'm a romantic.

It took almost five minutes for the reply to come in. 'Send me a dick pic or never talk to me again.'

Well, fuck.

So it was to the restroom I went. Our nice, industrial restroom, with a bunch of stalls with an absolute minimum of privacy necessary to avoid lawsuits.

I give myself a little bit of credit for having the presence of mind to stop near the elevators and mute my phone. I wanted to avoid getting a reputation as the guy who takes pictures in the men's room, if at all possible.

So I did the shamefaced walk into the restroom, and in the stall reserved for disabled persons I stood with my pants around my ankles and took a picture of my, of course, completely and unabashedly hard cock. The first time, I should mention, that particular part of my anatomy had been photographed. I almost didn't hit send.

Who am I kidding. Of course I fucking hit send.

I'd just finished washing up and was heading back to my cubicle when my phone vibrated.

'Send me a pic of it soft.'

I stood stock still in the middle of the sea of cubicles, staring at my phone screen for what seemed like half an hour. Then I turned and headed toward the stairwell.

Somewhere deep in any large office building, there's a safe haven. It's a restroom, hidden away in a hallway around a corner with a light out, or up a flight of stairs no-one wants to climb. It might be tiny, or trashed, but most of them are somehow kind of pleasant, and mysteriously well maintained. Whatever their origins, whatever their purpose, no-one ever seems to be using them in your time of darkest need.

Mine was on a floor which was half vacant and half occupied by a social services agency. I ducked into the ever-vacant men's room and contemplated my predicament. Because taking a picture of my cock soft was going to be a challenge when just taking the picture was turning me on.

For an instant, I contemplated running cold water over it, but that meant standing in plain view of the restroom door with my cock in the sink. However low the odds were of anyone walking in, it was just too much of a career-limiting move to really be an option.

But there was cold water, and there were paper towels, and I was a genius! I grabbed a big handful of paper towels out of the dispenser while running cold water in the sink, then I soaked the paper towels and took them into the stall. I unzipped, deployed my ever-turgid cock, and wrapped the cold wet towels around it.

My cock thought this was a fun game. It got even harder.

Further efforts with the damp towels left my cock undeterred. More drastic action was called for. I contemplated using hot water, but thought better of it immediately. In the state I was in, by the time the heat acted as a deterrent I'd have third-degree burns.

I needed ice. There was an ice machine on the ninth floor, but it was pretty heavily guarded.

On the other hand, there was a soda machine just down the hall.

I got myself together and put the towels in the trash, then went and paid I think eight dollars or something ridiculous for a robotic arm to dispense a bottle of soda with a dramatic flourish. I took it and scurried back to the bathroom.

Armed with more wet towels, I went into the big stall and dropped trou. My cock had softened during the soda run, but it had bounced back by the time I had my camera out. I put the soda bottle along the underside of it, and wrapped some towels around it, and thought of things that would never turn me on in a million years. Which I will refrain from relating.

Eventually, my cock gave up reaching for the stars. I got my camera ready, took the soda bottle and towels away, got my soft, wet cock nicely framed and in focus, and took the shot.

I sent it right away, then got my pants up, tossed the towels away, considered washing the soda and drinking it but decided against it, and tossed the soda. I cleaned up, made sure I looked civilized, and returned to my desk.

When I got back, I put my phone on my desk. I'd gotten a text message without noticing it.

It just said, 'Lol.'

I felt the blush go all the way down to my crotch, where, yes, my cock was back to being hard again. Goddamn it. And now I had no idea what to text back. What the hell could I say to that?

I waited to see if he'd follow up, but a half an hour passed, and I grew more and more certain that it was somehow my turn.

'So, are you doing anything for dinner tonight?' I knew it was pathetic as soon as I sent it. I cringed as I waited. I'm sure I was visibly cringing, sitting in my cubicle, answering email.

Phone goes off. 'I don't want to date you. I don't want to have sex with you. I want you to do whatever I tell you to. If you're a good dog, I'll let you play with my bone.'

I'm sure there were thoughts in my head, but none really came to mind right away. 'What do you mean?' I texted idiotically.

In less than a minute he sent back a picture. It was a guy, about my age. He was on his hands and knees, with his wrists tied to his upper arms and his ankles tied to his thighs so that he couldn't stand, he could only walk on his knees and elbows. He had a chastity device on his cock, and he had a tail in his ass that had to be connected to a butt plug.

I actually didn't know my cock could get that hard.

Another text message came in. 'You'd do anything to be with me. I want you to be my dog.'

Well, fuck.

And it was time to go home. I thought about texting back before making the commute, but I had no idea what I'd say. I spent the half an hour on the highway trying to ignore the drivetime DJs and figuring out what the hell I was thinking.

Mostly what I was thinking was a distinctly sane 'fuck no,' the reaction pretty much any normal person would have to the idea of being tied up and at the mercy of a nineteen year old busboy, making like I'm his faithful hound.

What I was feeling, of course, wasn't that. It was best summed up by my cock, which was standing tall in approval of the whole idea.

I was a mess by the time I got home. I dropped my keys in the bowl on the hall table and pulled out my phone. Nothing else had come in. No further encouragement, no 'just kidding.'

The sane thing to do would be to delete the whole conversation and leave it at that. He wanted something that I didn't, we weren't sexually compatible, no harm no foul, just walk away.

I still have regrets about missed opportunities dating back to grade school. I will, I admit, occasionally lie in bed late at night wondering what would have happened if I'd taken Kenny Mitchell up on his offer to play bass in his band back when I was still wearing braces. I was pretty sure that if I turned down this chance, I'd be perpetually bruised from kicking myself forever anyway. What the hell.

'Woof.'

It was a few minutes before he texted back. I spent the time staring in my fridge and my cupboards, trying to focus on figuring out what I could cook for dinner. I jumped when my phone went off.

'Good boy. I get off at ten tonight. I want you to pick me up. One woof for yes.'

I almost dropped my phone as I typed 'Woof.'

In a few seconds, he texted back. 'I like this. From now on, you get ten lashes for every word you say to me that isn't woof.'

'Woof.' What else could I say? But now I was acutely aware that my busboy had cut off any way I had of communicating, any chance of getting whatever was happening between us on a more level playing field. I could usually talk my way into or out of anything, but now I couldn't talk.

And then there were no texts for over an hour. And it wasn't like I could start up a conversation now, so I was stuck cooking something listless for dinner and trying to concentrate on something dumb on television. It didn't help that my cock spent most of the night painfully hard. I couldn't help going over all sorts of scenarios that might happen tonight, with results ranging from my busboy, whose name I suppose I really should learn sometime soon, what kind of restaurant doesn't make their staff wear name tags, and I falling madly in love, to my body being dumped in a river around sunrise.

So it was with these conflicting thoughts racing through my addled and horny mind that I received the next text.

'At 9:30 go to Adult Fantasies on Madera. Bark at the man behind the counter. He'll have a package for you. Pay for it. Don't open it. Then come pick me up.'

In my defense, I hesitated almost ten minutes before I texted back 'Woof.' I really, actually thought about backing out for a moment. I didn't know what would be in that package. It could be drugs for all I know, and I was in the middle of a huge drug deal. The possibility that my body was going to be found in a ditch tomorrow was rising.

But... it was an adult bookstore. He could be having me pick up things he wanted to use on me. Which was the thought in my head when I texted.

Then I realized that I had completely glossed over the part where I had to walk into an adult store and bark at the salesperson.

My phone lit up. 'Good boy,' the text said.

It was just about seven. I had over two hours before I had to be at the bookstore. I could stay in my apartment and pace, but I'm not sure my carpets were up to that much abuse. I looked over the place to make sure everything was clean, I put a couple of towels in the nightstand, and I spent a while in the bathroom getting prepared, but then I still had an hour and a half.

There was an outdoor mall about halfway between me and where I was going to be picking up, um, what's his name, my future Master. I gave up pacing, grabbed my keys, and headed there. I wandered around the various shops, just sort of looking at objects while I waited for time to pass. Every so often, a good-looking guy would walk past me, and I'd wonder what he'd make me do to sleep with him.

After spending way too long on a fantasy of being sex slave to a checkout guy at the J. C. Penney's, I checked the time on my phone, and figured it was close enough. I made my way back to the parking lot where I'd left my car, and drove the rest of my regular commute towards work. Without traffic and without sunlight, heading towards a rendezvous with a kinky teenage busboy, it was much more interesting than usual.

The adult store was the only parking lot in the neighborhood with signs of life. Of course. I pulled into a space, tried to make myself inconspicuous, however one does that, and skulked towards the door. You try not skulking under these circumstances.

I spent a while looking at dildos, trying to work up the courage to do whatever it was I was about to do. When it was 9:30, I went up to the counter.

The guy working the register was maybe thirty, thin, good-looking, tattooed. He was looking at me a little too expectantly. Possibly because I was blushing so hard I was about to gush blood from my face.

It took me a couple of tries. "Woof," I said eventually.

"Oh. It's you." He gave me the universal 'I knew it' look. "Hang on."

He ducked out from behind the counter and went into the back room. He came back with a paper bag, the size of a grocery bag, stapled shut at the top. There was a receipt stapled to the top of it, which he ripped off as he reached the counter.

"Let's see," he said. "That'll be $287.15."

I opened my mouth to say something, but thought better of it. In for a penny, in for a few hundred pounds. I handed the guy a credit card.

He looked at it, and smiled at me. Then he ran my card, had me sign, and gave me the bag.

"Have a nice day," he said.

I pretty much had no alternative at this point. "Woof," I said.

I left the adult store as rapidly as I could without breaking any laws or sound barriers, and was parked in the little lot outside the Mexican restaurant instantaneously. Where I waited. There were three beaters in the parking lot and one Accura, so I figured it was an obnoxious guest staying late.

Ten minutes later, light poured from the door to the restaurant, followed by a guy in a suit and a girl in a skirt, who strolled to the Accura and left.

Another ten minutes and the door opened again, and a few guys came out. One of them was him. They said goodnight to each other, and headed for the cars.

He came toward mine.

As he reached for the door, I popped the lock. He slid into the car, smelling of spices and sweat and heaven.

"Hey, boy, happy to see me?" He asked.

What else could I say? "Woof."

"Good. We're going to Central and Alameda."

I honestly hadn't considered for a moment that we'd go anyplace but my own apartment. I hadn't made any of the usual preparations, telling a friend where I'd be, having someone to check in with, because I had assumed he wouldn't have a place to go. I figured he lived with his parents.

I pulled out of the parking lot and headed downtown.

"By the way," he said, putting his feet up on the dashboard. "I'm Mike. But you can call me Master. In your head, I guess since you can't talk. Ha!"

I was kind of hoping his sneakers would leave marks on my dashboard.

We were in an area that was mostly little shops, auto repair places and pawn shops and convenience stores. He had me pull into a lot behind an auto shop, and then led me up a steel staircase on the outside of the building to a door. He opened it to reveal a small but efficient little studio apartment.

He gestured me inside, then closed and bolted the door. I'd brought the bag of stuff he'd ordered, still stapled shut. I realized I was holding it in front of my crotch.

When he was in the restaurant, Mike moved with polite, reserved grace, avoiding customers and waitstaff with a smile while balancing trays of plates. Here at home, he was a different kind of creature altogether. He tossed his keys on the counter, then strode into the living room like he was on a red carpet. After a minute spent bent over his laptop, some music came on. Indie pop, some band I didn't recognize.

He turned to me. I'd been standing in front of the door, staring at him, not a thought in my head. There were feelings, sure, fear and lust and such, but nothing cohered into an actual thought at any point. I was just standing there.

"On your knees, dog." He said it with a smile.

I knelt.

"Crawl over here."

I put the bag down, but he said, "Bring that," so I put the top of the bag in my mouth and crawled across the carpet towards him.

When I reached his feet, he said "Gimme." And when I gave it to him, he said "Good boy." He patted me on the head. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was preposterous, how hard my cock was. I was kneeling at my busboy's feet, ready to do whatever he wanted.

"I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do to you tonight," Mike said, "And if you object to any of it, you bark. Got it?"

I barked.

His voice was completely matter of fact. "I'm going to tie you up, put a collar on you, and treat you like my dog. You're going to lick every inch of me. You're going to suck me off, and I'm going to fuck you. I'll be using toys on your ass too. If you're bad, I'll be punishing you, spanking or whipping, maybe a stress position. I won't be drawing blood, or doing any permanent damage, but I do like causing pain. Oh, no scat either. But I might spit on you if I feel like it."

He looked at me expectantly. "No woof?"

I shook my head.

"Good boy," he said. "And if you're good, and you take your punishment like a good dog, and you do everything I tell you to, I might even let you come back."

My heart leapt. Which wasn't saying much for my chances of resisting anything he wanted to do to me.

He pulled the top of the bag I'd bought from the bemused adult store attendant and rummaged through it. He brought out a collar.

"You want this, boy?" he asked.

I nodded, then on second thought added, "Woof!"

"Well, you're going to have to earn it." He cleared his throat, and visibly swished a little spit around in his mouth. "I want you to beg."

I was on my knees anyway, so I put my 'paws' up in the air, and gave him a puppy dog look, and did my best to do a cute puppy dog face, however ridiculous that might have looked. He laughed, and bent over me. Which is when it occurred to me that I was begging for his spit.

I was on my knees in a stranger's apartment, begging like a dog for him to spit in my mouth.

There are moments in your life where fundamental truths that you believe about yourself change. In the pause between the spit leaving his mouth, when it was hanging there at the end of a thread of spittle, about to plummet towards my open mouth, I came to the realization that I might, possibly, have some slight submissive tendencies.

His spit was cool and slimy and frothy and viscous, and it coated my tongue.

"Swallow it," he said, and I swallowed.

"Good dog." He held up the collar. "You want this?"

I nodded my head. "Woof!"

"Remember, your safeword is anything but 'woof.'" He slid the slick leather of the collar around my neck, and buckled it on me. I was his dog.

Then he rummaged in the grocery bag again, and came out with what looked like a thick leather cuff, but with a leather mitten attached. He held one out to me. "Give me your paw," he said, in that helpful encouraging voice you use on dogs when you're about to give them a shot or something.

I dubiously held out my right hand, and he put the leather mitt over it and buckled it on. I'd lost the use of my hand.

"Other paw," he said, taking another mitt out of the bag.

I held out my left hand, and he strapped the cuff to it, turning it into a paw.

He took a pair of knee pads out of the bag, and tossed the empty bag aside. "Roll over, boy!"

I rolled over onto my back, nearly hitting the coffee table, and put my arms and legs in the air.

Mike the busboy bent over me and unbuckled my belt, then unbuttoned and unzipped my slacks. Then he pulled my pants and underwear down to my ankles, leaving me bare-assed on his carpet as he pulled my shoes and socks off, then took off my pants. Then he strapped the knee pads onto my knees.

I remembered the jokes we used to make back in the day. Kneepads. Yeesh.

"Okay, boy. Up! Beg!" Mike said encouragingly.

I clambered to my knees, where I found that the kneepads were, indeed, rather comfortable.

My busboy pulled my polo shirt and undershirt off over my head and threw them into a corner. So now I was naked in front of him. He was still in his restaurant uniform, white short-sleeved shirt, black Dockers, black Nikes. He walked around me counter-clockwise, looking me over.

"Not bad for someone who's what, five in dog years?" He laughed and smacked my ass. "You work out some."

I resented that 'some.' But he liked my ass, which made me happy. Happier than I'd care to admit.

Back around the front of me, he got down on one knee and grabbed my erect cock. "What's this, boy?" he asked. "Someone's feeling a little frisky! You feeling frisky, pup?"

I said, "Woof!"

"If you're feeling frisky, wag your tail, pup!"

I wagged my ass a bit.

"Aww..." The look of disappointment in his face was touching. "Puppy doesn't have a tail. That's so sad. Do you want a tail, puppy?"

Sure, why not? "Woof!"

"You'd look great with a tail, wouldn't you? You want a tail, boy?"

His voice was getting me all excited. "Woof!" I said.

He said, "Stay," let go of my erection, and went to rummage in a bureau drawer. He returned with a big plastic bag, in which was a butt plug tail.

Perhaps the words butt plug tail don't really do anything for you; maybe they don't really conjure up much of a mental image. For those of you in this predicament, let me elaborate. It was a black rubber tail, about nine inches long, textured to kind of look like short fur. That was attached to a big bulbous buttplug, of the sort most people think of as only existing theoretically. To see a plug of that size in real life, let alone be confronted with the possibility of having it inserted in your ass, was daunting. If the definition of daunting is, as I suspect, noun, fucking terrifying.

"It's going to look so good on you, puppy. You want to wear this for me?"

Even though he was wearing his best for-customers smile, I backed away and gave a little whine, my eyes fixed on the evil buttplug.

"You want to make me happy, right, puppy?" His voice was so convincing. "You want to wear your tail like a good boy, right?"

I whined and backed my ass up against the bed.

His voice was stern. "Turn around and put your ass up in the air," he said, as if he was in the cop show of my dreams.

I almost did. But that plug looked like it could destroy me. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

"Okay, puppy," my Master said. Yeah, I called him that in my head. It surprised me too. "You're being a bad dog."

Oh, crap. I was being a bad dog. I'm sure my facial expression at that instant was an exact mirror of every dog ever who's been caught being naughty. It made my Master laugh.

He tossed the buttplug on the bed and grabbed me by the back of the neck. Hauling dish trays around for a living had made my Master a lot stronger than I would have imagined, because before I knew it his hand was on the back of my neck and my face was being ground into the carpet. With his other hand, my Master started smacking my ass.

The first couple of hits were ineffectual because of the angle, but my Master soon leaned into it and started to really wail on me. This wasn't some pretend haha-fun-sexytimes spanking, this was him methodically reddening my ass, inflicting as much hurt as possible in the process. In other words, fucking ow.

I was whimpering and whining and struggling to get away while he spanked me and tried to keep my head pinned to the carpet. I guess I must have struggled too hard, because he suddenly let me go, and turned to look in the bureau again.

He turned back to me with a few lengths of rope in his hand, his not-safe-for-work smile on his face. He tied one of the ropes to my collar, and then tied a knot in it not a foot from my face. Then he went behind me, with another smack to my ass on the way, and tied a rope around my left ankle. Then he was pulling it up tight against me, so my calf was pressed up against my thigh, and he was tying the rope around my thigh so I couldn't lower my foot. He did the same for the other leg, and I'd lost the use of my feet. I was on all fours like an animal until my Master chose to let me up.

"That feel good, puppy? Feel natural?" he asked.

I let out a half-hearted "Woof."

He grabbed me by the back of the neck and shoved me to the ground again. Then he stomped on the knot in my leash. His foot, not three inches from my face, was pinning my head to the carpet.

Now that I really couldn't struggle much anymore, my Master started beating my ass again. I hobbled about on my knees, my feet dangling weirdly helpless behind me, trying to get away from the relentless spanking, but my Master followed me with mo problem, landing blows on my cheeks and my ass crack with deadly accuracy. I was yelping now, pinned up against the side of the bed.

He stopped.

"When you want me to stop," he said, "Just let me know you're ready to accept that you're my dog. Bark three times, and you'll get your tail."

He started again.

The brief pause made the spanking seem worse when it resumed. His hand was landing on skin that was already reddened to the point of bruising, and it felt like he was beating me with red-hot pokers. I felt bad for his hand.

Wow. I felt bad for the hand of the man who was beating my ass. Was this another moment of realization, or was I just desperate to get the spanking to stop? Had I accepted my dog nature, or was I just pretty sure that taking the buttplug wasn't going to be nearly as painful as another thirty seconds of Master's hand?

Whatever. "Woof. Woof! Woof!"

He stopped spanking me right away. "Good boy," he said. He sounded excited. Happy. Youthful. Like a boy getting a new puppy.

And I was a little bit proud that I was making him that happy.

He took his foot off the leash and picked it up. He pulled me to the coffee table, and swept a couple of magazines, an empty soda bottle, and a schedule for the local community college off of it, and coaxed me to get up onto it.

I mounted the coffee table dubiously, and ended up splayed out on it, junk hanging off of it, ass completely exposed. He tied off my leash to one of the legs, and then pulled my arms behind my back. He must have just looped a piece of rope through the D-rings on the cuffs and tied it off, because almost instantly he had my hands immobilized behind my back.

He gave my ass another smack making my whole body jerk. The coffee table groaned. I was really hoping it could hold my weight, and possibly his, depending on what he planned to do to me on it.

And then he was at my ass, and his fingers were lubing me up and then pushing into me. First one, then another, probing into me, widening me. Every so often he'd push up against my prostate, which acted like a turbo button on my throbbing erection. Then he was trying to get a third finger in, but it was rough going. So he grabbed my cock and jerked it a few times, which sent me over the moon for a moment. When I came back, all three of his fingers were in me.

When he felt I was good and ready, he pulled them out and grabbed the tail. I felt the tip of the buttplug against my ass. I had to admit, it felt narrower than the fingers that had been invading me.

"Ready, puppy?" My Master asked.

I whimpered.

"It'll be okay. You can do it." He started pushing the tip into me, and it went in smoothly. I could feel it opening me up. It took forever, with him pushing my limits, then backing off, then pushing it into me again, but eventually the widest part of the plug made it inside my ass, pain shooting through my whole body, but then my ass had clamped down on it like it was part of me.

"There you go!" My Master patted my back. "Now you look like a happy puppy. Let's see how it looks."

He untied my hands, and helped me off the coffee table. I was back on my hands and knees, feet bound behind me, hands in my mitts, and now I had a black rubber tail wagging behind me.

And so help me, it made me happy to feel it wagging back there. It was like forcing a smile when you're unhappy can make you feel better; it was impossible to be wagging and feel bad about it.

My Master had me follow him around the apartment for a while, teaching me to heel. Then he tried a few tricks. Rolling over is hard. I'll never look down on another dog for doing the whole rolling over trick again. Begging we'd been over, but my Master seemed to like it.

Shaking hands was weird. I was a human pretending to be a dog pretending to be a human, shaking hands using my paw.

Then he decided to play fetch. He perched on the edge of the bed and took off one of his Nikes, and tossed it across the room. I trotted across the room as fast as I could go. It was still awkward, but I was getting better at navigating on my new legs. I went down to pick his sneaker up in my mouth, and I smelled him. It wasn't fair. His feet smelled good. Nobody's feet smelled good.

I walked back to him on all fours with his shoe in my mouth, my tail wagging pertly behind me.

He threw the sneaker again, and this time it rolled under a chair. I had to go down on my chest to get it, grabbing the tongue of it with my mouth and dragging it out from the depths. When I brought it back to him he petted my head, then he held the Nike to my face playfully. "What do you say, boy?" he asked. "You like that? You like your Master's smell?"

I woofed. Happily.

He tossed the shoe again, and I brought it back to find he'd taken his cock out of his pants and was smiling at me. His not-for-customers smile.

"Come get your bone, puppy."

I dropped the Nike on the floor and just about sprinted over to him. His cock was thicker than I'd imagined, with a big thick ridge running down the underside of the shaft. He was cut, and the head of his cock had a perfect flared shape. I approached it reverently. It's possible that a choir started doing scales in my head as I neared the one object of all my ambitions, the cock for which I'd become a dog.

Touching it was electric. Mostly because I'd been crawling around on the carpet in kneepads, I think, because as soon as I got close to it a spark jumped from my nose to his cock.

He jumped. "Ow!" Then his smile came back. Not the friendly one. "You'll pay for that one, pup."

I gulped, then started licking his cock. The skin was like soft leather stretched over steel. I licked up its length, the taste of him strong as I reached the head and took it in my mouth. I ran my tongue under it, caressing it as I took it deeper and deeper into my mouth.

This is the point at which I'd usually have started to use my hands, but my mitts prevented that. With my legs tied up behind me, I couldn't really switch up positions, either. I had to please my master with my mouth and my tongue.

I lapped at his cock with my tongue, I used the roof of my mouth to stimulate his cockhead. I let his cock out of my mouth reluctantly, and started licking up and down his shaft. He seemed to like watching me as I did that, my tongue out, my tail wagging behind me.

He started backing away from me on the bed, scooting backwards a couple of inches at a time. I followed, trying to keep my tongue on his cock, crawling forward until my legs were up against the side of the bed.

"Good dog," my Master said. "Stay."

With my ass now in the perfect position for a vigorous fuck, my Master got up off the bed and went behind me.

"Okay, puppy, just relax." He gave a little tug at my tail, and my cock jumped.

"I'm going to need better access," he said, and untied my ankles from my thighs. Letting them down felt amazing. Then he tied them together at the ankles.

I heard a condom being unwrapped, and looked over my shoulder to see him putting it on.

I clenched my fists in my puppy mitts, and braced myself as he started pulling at the tail again. He gave a firm, steady pull and it came out of me, leaving me feeling vaguely like the Grand Canyon back there.

Fortunately, my Master wouldn't leave me empty for long. I felt him mount me, felt the head of his cock pushing into me. There was nothing I could do to resist even if I'd wanted to, it just slid into me as if it was meant to be there. He took his time, steadily pushing deeper into me, taking me. I have never felt quite so owned as I did in that moment, prone on a busboy's bed, hands in puppy mitts, feet tied, collar around my neck, and this young stud's cock in my ass.

And it felt good.

Fully sheathed in my ass now he rested against me a moment, his lean young body pressed up against mine, his breathing loud in my ear. Then he started thrusting, shallow strokes at first. His cock felt so good in me, it felt like I was custom made for him. I tightened my ass around him, trying to pull him further into me.

He responded by fucking me harder, speeding up his pace, starting to ride me for real. His cock was pounding into me, slamming me up against the bed, my own cock throbbing in time with the pounding I was receiving.

"When you start cumming," he said, his voice hoarse and low, "Bark for me."

If he was trying to turn me off, that was the wrong thing to say. I'd become a dog to please this busboy, this Master who was using my ass, and he was getting off on owning me. His cock was pounding at my prostate, my cock was pinned up against the mattress, and he was fucking me right towards a colossal orgasm. I felt it build, a towering wave of ecstasy poised to sweep me away, and then as it crested, as I was just about to cum, I barked.

And my Master started spanking my ass, hard. I thrust desperately against the bed, whether it was to get away from the pain from his hand and the pleasure from his cock, or to get more of them I have no idea. I was cumming explosively, my Master riding my ass, my ass spasming around his cock, and then he was cumming inside of me. He let out this growl as he came, and he shoved himself into me hard, his hand grabbing my ass, his fingers digging into the tender flesh.

He stayed on top of me then, our bodies pulsing in the aftermath, his grip on my ass relaxing, his weight coming to rest on me.

After a time he got off of me, and I felt him untying my legs. Then he undid the puppy mitts, and collapsed on the bed. He patted the bedspread next to him. "Up, boy! Come on."

I clambered up on the bed, and lay down next to him. He cuddled up next to me and petted my shoulder.

"You did good, boy. You okay?" he asked.

"Woof," I said. It was a pretty contented woof.

"Are you happy?"

I thought about it. Weirdly, nothing was bothering me. I wasn't worried about anything. I didn't have any regrets. I was just curled up next to my Master. "Woof," I said.

We lay there for a while, letting the world come back into focus. Then things started to seem just a little awkward, what with the no talking and all, so I went to get up off the bed, and he let me. I got my clothes on as he gathered up the bondage stuff I'd brought and put it back in the bag.

When I was dressed he came up to me and took my collar off, put it in the bag and handed it to me. I tried to give it back to him, but he smiled and refused.

"Those are yours," he said. "You look good in them."

"Woof," I said. I turned to the door. It felt weird to use my hand to grab the knob. I turned back one last time before I left.

He was smiling at me, and it wasn't a customer smile or a lecherous smile, it was just a smile.

"Woof," I said.

I gave it a week before I went back to the restaurant; I didn't want to seem like I was creeping on him or anything. I waited my whole lunch hour, but didn't see him once. I texted him that night, just sending 'Woof,' but he didn't answer.

It took a couple of weeks, but I ended up asking my waitress about him. She said he'd gotten accepted to college or something, and he'd left for California.

I hoped it worked out well for him.

So, now I have a bag of bondage gear, the memory of a night spent as a busboy's pet, and the knowledge that I'm happiest when I'm serving someone else, in whatever kinky ways they can imagine.

I'm going to have to figure out what to do about that.

Let me know what you think. avunculous@gmail.com