Be My Dog

Be My Dog

Part 2

I Was A Gardener's Dog

by Kirk McCorkle

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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. Or keep reading, and come to terms with being a sexual outlaw. I welcome your feedback, and hope you enjoy the story.

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"Hi," The landscaper was standing in the blinding sunlight of my doorway, tall, lean, young, sweaty, unbearably beautiful. "I'm really sorry, but do you mind if I use your bathroom?"

"Oh," I said. "Um, sure. Over there, to the left."

"Thanks. Here, let me take these off, I don't want to get your carpets all muddy." He bent over to unlace his work boots. "I know we're not supposed to come in like this, but I just found out my ride isn't getting here for another couple of hours."

"It's okay," I said. I wasn't at my wittiest, conversationally. I was trying not to hyperventilate. The landscaping company had been here all week, and I'd been telecommunting and supervising and, let's face it, watching the studly landscaping guys. They were taking out my dead lawn and putting piles of tastefully-arranged gravel in its place, and watching them had put me about two days behind at work.

This guy was the hottest one on the crew. He was tall and muscular and had his hair cut short. He wore a gold chain around his neck. He went shirtless a lot. And thank god for that. I loved watching him wrestle the rocks for the borders into place, or dig the little trenches for the irrigation system. Tiny little rivulets of sweat, running down that flawless skin, to be absorbed in the waistband of his underwear...

I was staring at him again.

He put his boots neatly by the door and smiled at me, a big, pleasant smile. "Through here?"

"Yes," I stammered. "Light switch, um, by the door."

"Thank you." He disappeared into my hall, and I heard the bathroom door open and the fan come on. The door closed, and I tried to catch my breath. I'd caught his scent as he walked past. Sweat and mown grass and sunlight.

And now I was standing here next to his boots.

I'd been watching him work in those boots for the past four days, and I'd thought about how they would smell about, um, fifteen thousand times. Per day. Maybe. My brain ran through a quick loop of moral calculus about the violation of privacy or personal space or integrity and chided me for what I was about to do. I figured I had maybe forty-five seconds before he got out of the bathroom, and I'd have plenty of time to hide the evidence when I heard the door open.

I knelt on the mat by his boots, and picked one up. It was a Timberland, the fawn-colored ones with the big lugged soles. Or at least it had been fawn-colored. Now it had that magnificent patina that those boots can only acquire through hard work. It was like sculpture.

I put my face into the top of his boot and inhaled. Salt and sweat and grass and dirt and sex. The smell of a man.

I groped at my pants, desperate to get my cock out. I'd just gotten my fly open when I heard him behind me.

"Hey," he said.

I squealed, dropped the boot and tried to turn around and scramble to my feet at the same time.

"I don't think that's part of our full-service plan," he said. He was smiling, a different kind of smile altogether. "Although maybe we could work something out."

"Look, I don't know what you think you saw," I started, calling on my Toastmasters training to keep my voice confident. "But I was just checking for..."

He'd walked right up to me, and was looking down at me from about three inches in front of me and six inches above. I ran out of words.

He lifted his arms over his head, turned his face towards one armpit, and inhaled.

His scent washed over me, and I swear I could feel my judgment lapse.

I breathed in.

"I've seen you watching us," he said. "The guys were joking about it. Told me to be careful being here alone today." He took my chin in his hand and brought my gaze up to meet his. "I don't think I've got anything to be afraid of, do I?"

My heart was thundering in my ears. I wasn't sure if I'd stumbled into a porno or the beginning part of a cop show where they graphically depict how the crime was committed.

"I can have you fired," I said. It was all I could think of.

"Okay. Then that's your safeword." He grinned at me. "If you want this to stop, say 'you're fired.'"

All right, so I wasn't about to die. That was good. "Look, I don't pay for sex," I said, from the highest moral ground I could plant my flag on. If I'd had a high horse I would have gotten on that too.

"And I don't pay for yardwork." He shrugged. "I don't want your money. I want you to grovel for me. I want to humiliate you. I want to tie you up and whip your ass. I want to use you to get myself off. But hey, if you don't want that, I'll just wait outside."

He leaned against the wall by the door and started putting his boots back on.

A few years back, after months of quiet, determined negotiations, I'd convinced my ex-boyfriend to try some bondage for me. He'd put in a half-hearted effort a couple of times, and since then I'd contented myself with watching bondage porn now and then and occasionally fantasizing that I was being kidnapped while we were having sex.

But this was real, and he was here, and he smelled amazing, and I had to have him, and there was no possible way I was going to let a young stranger...

"What do you want?" My voice kind of leaked out of me.

He kept lacing up his boot. "You do everything I tell you to for the next two hours."

"How much?" I asked.

He flashed an angry look at me "Are you calling me a whore?"

"No! No, I just... I thought..." I had no idea what I thought anymore.

"I don't want your money," he said. "Get on your knees."

I got on my knees, obviously.

"Say you're sorry." He was a lot taller from down here.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He reached down and grabbed me by the back of the neck. "What do you call me?"

For a few seconds I actually tried to remember if I might have heard someone call him by name this week. "Oh, uh...sir! Sir!"

He shoved me down towards the floor. "You want to kiss my boots, boy?"

A landscaper who couldn't have been older than twenty was calling me boy in my own foyer. "...yes, Sir."

"Beg me," he said.

"Um... please can I kiss your boots?"

He looked down at me scornfully. "Nowhere near good enough."

Then he looked around him at the entryway. "Let's see what you've got here," he said, and walked off towards my great room. He snapped his fingers at me.

"Heel," he said.

I watched his boots as he strode away, then gave a tremendous mental shrug and crawled after him. The tile was cold and slick under my hands.

I caught up to him as he was standing by the bar, looking over my entertainment center. I stopped a few inches from him, staring down at his heel.

I heard glass clink and I looked up to see him pouring himself some of my Scotch. My good scotch. He must have seen something in my expression, because he laughed.

"This is the stuff, huh? Johnny Walker Blue. I've heard of it." He had a big slug of it in a highball glass and he was spinning it around. He sniffed it. "Smells good."

He sat down on one of my barstools and crossed his feet at the ankles in front of him. He took a sip of whisky, seemed to appreciate it a moment, and then leaned forward over his boots, and let whisky dribble out of his mouth.

I watched it splash on his boots in front of me.

"Lick that up," he said.

"Look," I said, starting to get up off my knees. "I just wanted to, you know, maybe suck your cock or something, this is..."

He grabbed me by the back of the neck again, and before I knew it I was on the ground. "You firing me? That what you doing?" he asked.

"N-no," I said.

"Then shut the fuck up. Every word you say from here on in gets you ten lashes."

Lashes? What lashes? With what? I opened my mouth to ask.

His boot stomped down in front of my face. There were shiny spots where the liquor was drying.

"I told you to lick," he said.

I brought my face in close to the side of his boot, just above where the sole was stitched to the leather. There was a big spot of Johnny Walker.

I stuck out my tongue and licked.

Something deep inside me gave way. It was like the moment that a tectonic plate shifts and everything above it gets rearranged, none too politely. I was at the dirty feet of a big arrogant laborer, and there's nowhere I wanted to be more.

I stuck out my tongue and licked that boot like my life depended on it, like it was made of crème brulee, like it was the grubby smelly boot of the landscaper whose ass I'd been lusting after from my windows all week. I powerwashed that boot with my tongue, trying to get the dirt out of its leather, trying to make this big guy, this Sir, happy.

He sat back down on the barstool. "That's more like it."

I tried to work my way up his pants leg towards his crotch, but he pushed me back down with his other boot on my shoulder. "Get back to fucking work. Get those boots clean, boy."

The leather was rasping my tongue dry. I lapped at the toe of his boot, feeling the steel underneath it. This boot had been up to its ankle in mud, it had been worn while shoveling gravel, it had been on his foot when he was digging trenches and laying down mulch. And I was groveling before it.

"Heads up," he said. I pulled back from his boot and looked up, and he was leaning over again to spit more whisky. It dribbled onto his laces, down the leather sides.

I dove for it and lapped it up. Somewhere between the exquisite taste of the whisky and the taste of his boots was the most intense flavor I'd ever experienced. It was the sort of flavor you wake up with after having a dream about sex.

I was licking up his laces with long, hard strokes of my tongue when he said "Heads up," again. I looked up.

This time he grabbed me by my shirt collar, and leaned over my face. He took a sip of whisky and held it.

He wanted to spit it in my mouth.

I opened up.

He leaned in close, fractions of an inch from my face, and he let the whisky dribble from his mouth into mine.

I drank it down eagerly. The taste saturated my senses, like a good whisky does, but this came with a payload. It was his flavor that was infused into me now, his spit. I'd drunk his spit for him.

He grinned down at me, then stood up. "So, what have we got to work with? Got any rope?"

"Umm... some. In the garage," I said.

My heart just about stopped. I'd spoken. I hoped he wouldn't notice, hoped he'd forgotten.

"Good. Take your clothes off." He ordered it casually, like you'd order a side salad.

I pulled my shirt off over my head, then went to get up to take off my pants. He made a little warning growl in his throat and I stopped, sat down, and pulled off the rest of my clothes.

"All right," he said. "Go get the rope. And duct tape if you have any."

I'd never been in my garage naked before. It wasn't like I was exposed, unless someone very determined was peering in the windows. But it was weird, and it was humiliating, fetching rope for my Master, padding about in the nude. I caught my reflection in a door panel when I was headed back to him, rope in hand, and I was hunched over, scurrying, humbled. Very much like I imagined slaves would walk.

I brought him the rope and the duct tape and knelt at his feet again. He inspected it, and it apparently met with his approval, because he said "Give me your hands."

I held out my hands to him, and he wrapped the rope around my wrists. His touch was gentle, and he tied me up quickly, but he'd done an excellent job. The knots were nowhere I could reach, and the ropes around my wrists were firm, but not too tight. He knew what he was doing.

He'd left a few feet of the rope dangling, and now he picked it up. "Come here, puppy. Come on, boy," he said.

He led me across the soft carpet towards the spiral staircase to the loft. I crawled awkwardly with my hands tied. He started up the stairs and I started to follow, but he pulled the leash so I was beside the staircase as he went up. I had to circle around it on the floor as he ascended. I had no idea what he was up to.

When he was maybe ten feet up, he stopped, and started pulling on the rope. He pulled me to my feet, and then a little further so that my toes were just touching the ground. Then he tied the rope off to the railing.

As he started back down the staircase he took his belt off.

Absolute terror flashed through me. I was going to get whipped by my gardener. I tried to brace myself, but I wasn't sure exactly how you do that.

He descended the last few steps and stood before me, looking me over as I hung there, trying to keep my footing. That scary grin came over his face. He fondled the belt.

"Some," he said. "In the garage. Four words. Forty lashes." He looked me over. "Am I fired yet?"

I bit my lip and shook my head.

"Good." He went around behind me, and somehow I tensed every single muscle in my body. Possibly including some involuntary ones.

It seemed to take forever for the first hit to land. When it did, and the shock and the initial pain had passed, and I could feel the line of heat across my back, that's when my cock twitched.

On the second stroke, it was rock hard.

His belt landed on my back, and each time it did I could feel a little bit more of my dignity being stripped away, a little more of my self-control. A little more of myself. I was soon crying out with every blow, and at first I sounded angry as I tried to deal with the pain that was turning my back into a battlefield. That anger didn't last, though. I was reduced to tears, great heaving sobs that continued through each blow, while my weight dangled almost entirely from my arms. My knees wouldn't hold me up. The landscaper kept beating me, savagely, it felt like he was taking great welts of skin from my back each time his belt landed on me.

I thought about begging him to stop, but I dreaded the blows that would come for every word. I remember worrying for a little while about somebody hearing me and calling the police. I was well out of earshot of the neighbors usually, but I was being pretty loud. I was worried that the cops would show up and do something horrible to my landscaper. So I tried to keep my mouth shut, and that just made it worse.

I was writhing, dangling from my rope, feet trying for traction on the floor as the belt kept flaying me, and then... nothing. It had stopped.

I'd forgotten it was going to stop.

His arms were around me, and he was supporting me and untying me, and I was sobbing in his arms. He got me over to the sofa and lay down and held me as I turned into complete mush in his arms.

I hadn't cried in about eight years. I made up for it in about eight minutes.

He just held me.

I became aware of his smell first, and then the texture of his shirt, and then his arm around me. That was followed by a wave of acute embarrassment. This guy, this landscaper, had just seen me more vulnerable than either of my last two boyfriends ever had.

I looked up, and he was smiling down at me, and it wasn't mean or malicious or anything, it was just a smile.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Mike."

I smiled back, weakly, and buried my face in his shirt. He gave me another couple of moments.

"Now," he said, "Are you ready to be my dog?"

I looked up at him, and I nodded. I was ready to do anything he wanted. I felt emptied out, I felt like I was made of crystal. I could be anything he wanted.

"Okay, down boy." He nudged me, and I got off the sofa, and knelt before him.

He sat up and put one of his feet in my lap. "Take it off," he said.

My fingers trembled as I untied the knot in his shoelace, and then loosened it. I put my hands around his boot, warm with the heat of his foot, and pulled it off of him.

"Smell it," he said, and I put it up to my face and inhaled. I actually got lightheaded a moment. The fresh hot scent coming from his boot was like the essence of youth, distilled down to its rawest form. It was bravado and angst and sweat and beer and late nights in parking lots and roadtrips and innocence and loss. The halfway point between the angels and the earth. I pushed my face into it, I took it deep into my lungs.

"You like that?" he said.

I nodded.

He pushed the boot away with his foot, and stuck his socked sole in my face. I grabbed it with both my hands and started licking it, abandoning any dignity I might once have thought I had. All I wanted was his toes in my mouth.

I licked at them, sucked at them, I licked at his sock and I nipped at his toes and I took them all into my mouth, and I was proud that I could. His foot was big, strong, athletic. I rubbed it with my thumbs while I licked, my eyes closed.

"Take the sock off," he said, and I did. "Put it in your mouth," he said, and I did. "Now the other one."

He put his other foot in my lap. I pulled the boot off, and put my face to this one. It smelled just as strong, just as beautiful. I put it down, took his foot, and I took the sock off of it and put that in my mouth too.

"Have you got a collar I can put on you? Like a dog collar?" my Master asked.

I shook my head sadly.

"Damn." He made a loop of rope, and passed it over my head. He gave it a little tug, and it got tighter.

"Like a stray dog off the street," he said. "Give me your hands."

I held out my hands to him. There were rope marks around my wrists. Mike grabbed my hand, made it into a fist, and started wrapping duct tape around it.

He did both hands like that. I no longer had hands, they were more like paws.

"All right dog, on your hands and knees." He pulled one of my feet up behind me roughly, and I felt him looping rope around my ankle. He then tied that foot to my thigh, not too tightly, so my foot was raised up behind me. Then he did the other leg the same way, so my feet were tied up and I had to walk on my knees.

"Come on, doggy," he said. "Let's go for a walk."

I followed him as he paced about the living room. He would tug on the rope around my neck if I was slow. I sucked on the socks in my mouth as I crawled, and I stared at his beautiful feet. If I'd had a tail, I would have been wagging it. For the first time in my adult life, I wasn't worried about anything. All I wanted to do was make this man happy.

He walked me around the couches a couple of times, and then toward the back door. I thought he was going to take me outside, and I was trying to come to terms with that, but he just led me past it into the kitchen.

The tile was hard on my knees, but I didn't care. I hobbled after him, my cock so hard beneath me that it was slapping against my stomach as I crawled.

We circled the kitchen island and then we were back on the carpet, and he stopped me. "You want a bone, puppy?" he said.

I nodded my head.

"You want to suck my cock?"

I nodded.

"You want me to fuck your little doggy ass?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Then bark."

I went to bark, but he held up a finger. "I should tell you," he said, "That it will still count as a word. It'll be ten lashes."

I blinked at him. Was I willing to take another ten blows to my tenderized ass and my back so I could...

I barked. It came out muffled through his socks.

"Good dog. And bad dog." He smiled at me, evilly. "Have you got lube and condoms?"

I nodded up towards the loft. I wasn't going to make that mistake again.

"All right," he said. "Up you go."

He gestured me towards the spiral staircase.

And again I was afraid. Going up that staircase was a bit perilous when standing up. I was tottering around precariously on my hands and knees on solid ground, but those stairs were something else altogether.

I approached them cautiously, and started up. I took a couple of steps, and to my relief Mike started up behind me. He could catch me if I fell.

And then his belt slapped across my ass.

I jumped forward in mid-step, and my chest slammed against a stair. I let out a grunt. I immediately hoped he wouldn't count that against me.

I got back on my paws and started back up the stairs, with my Master behind me. Every couple of steps he'd whip my ass with his belt, and I was scurrying to get up the stairs as fast as possible.

When I got to the solid floor of the loft I just knelt there, with my head down, and my Master delivered the last three blows. Then he dropped his belt.

His shirt dropped next to my head. Then I heard him unzip his pants, and he stepped out of them in front of me. I could see his underwear in them. My Master was naked.

I looked up, and he was glorious. He was just the right kind of slender, with well-defined muscles made by hard work outdoors. He had the kind of abs that make straight men give it up. And his cock was hard, and it was huge, and it was going to be in me. I was going to be his.

I wagged my ass.

My Master patted me on the head and then looked around the room. I followed him into the little alcove with the drawing table, and then over to the bed, where he rummaged in the nightstand for a moment. Condoms and lube in hand, he turned to me.

"You want me to fuck you, puppy?" he asked.

I nodded my head. The socks in my mouth had gotten soaked through with my spit, and his taste was so strong in my mouth it was making my eyes water.

"Prove it." He sat cross-legged on the edge of my bed, hands on his knees. "Show me how much of a dog you are. Do some tricks. Put on a little show. You want a bone, you've gotta earn it."

For a moment I had no idea what he meant. When it clicked, there was a moment of resistance, a brief second where I considered retaining whatever might have been left of my shattered dignity. Then I breathed in, and there was his taste and his smell, and he was looking down on me with that grin, and more than anything I wanted to do whatever he wanted me to do. I wanted to be his dog.

I dropped to my elbows, my ass up in the air, wagging back and forth. The universal dog invitation to play.

Then I was bouncing across the room on all fours, doing the best doggy walk I could. I sat up, which was amazingly awkward with my legs tied behind me like they were, and I begged. I rolled over. I ran out of doggy things to do, so I played dead a moment.

Then I scrambled back up and went over to the bed, and I spat my Master's socks out next to him on the duvet. I backed up, looked at him expectantly, and wagged.

He looked at the socks dubiously a moment, then picked them up. "Oh, man. So gross."

He balled them up, touching them as little as possible, and then tossed them across the room.

I scrambled after them, grabbed the cold wet socks in my mouth, and trotted proudly back to my Master.

The next toss landed them against the bookcase, and I retrieved them quickly. I was getting better at getting around on all fours. I have a feeling the carpet was helping, though.

He played fetch with me for, I don't know. No idea. It could have been fifteen minutes. I lost track of time, of everything. I was just playing. I don't think I'd played since I was what, eleven?

"Who's a good dog?" he asked. He scratched me behind the ears, and I closed my eyes. "Who's a good dog? You are."

He scratched my head a moment, and it felt blissful.

And then he pulled my head towards him, towards his crotch, and I found myself nuzzling up against his balls, giving them gentle little licks with the tip of my tongue. Gradually I moved my way downwards, under his sac, between his legs, making my way towards my prize.

I'd spent, I don't know, not hours. Many tens of minutes peering out of my windows the past few days, hoping to catch sight of this magnificent gardener, and the thought that got my cock hardest when I saw him was how much I wanted to bury my face in those ass cheeks. How much I wanted him squirming on the end of my tongue. It wasn't something I would ever have acted on, it was just a thought that came to mind when I saw him bending over the walkway in those cheap dirty jeans.

And now I'd worked hard for it, and I was going after it. It felt like the doggy thing to do.

My Master pulled his legs up on the bed to give me room to work. I licked my way down the ridge of his taint, taking my time, loving the taste of his most intimate sweat. I'd seen him working outside all day, I knew this was the sweat of a hard day's labor in the hot sun, I knew it was supposed to be unthinkable to do what I was doing.

But I wasn't thinking. In that moment, I was the animal I was pretending to be, I was free to do what my instincts told me to do. I wanted to bask in the smell and the taste of this man, I wanted to have his scent all over me, I wanted to belong to him, I wanted to show him he had me, he could do what he wanted with me, I was his.

I started licking at his ass with all the dignity of a dog eating its dinner. I lapped at it, licked around it, stuck my tongue in it, slurped at it. My Master was moaning, and that made me happy, so I just stuck my face in there and went nuts.

My Master arched his back up off the bed, grabbing his ankles, and I used that opportunity to get a better angle on his ass and dig my tongue in. His hole was hot and tight around my tongue, grasping at it. I used my tongue to bring him every pleasure I could think of there, and he gasped and moaned above me, pressing his ass down onto my face, drawing me further inside him.

Then he bucked his hips, slid back on the bed, and I was blinking in the light of day. He had his cock in one hand.

"Suck me, puppy," he said.

I scrambled up onto the bed as best I could with my tied legs and duct taped paws, and crawled up to his cock. It was hard, bigger even than before, a drop of precum at the tip.

I licked the precum off, then tried to take his whole cock down my throat. I wasn't thinking about technique, I just wanted to have that cock as deep inside me as I could. I pushed my head down onto it until his head was deep inside me, and I was trying to swallow him without gagging.

He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me back, saying "Whoa, there, boy. Just suck on it a while. You're just getting me ready to fuck your ass."

I wagged. I was wagging without even thinking about it now.

So I licked at his cock, taking my time, drawing lines up the skin of his cock with my tongue. I took his cockhead in my mouth and I washed it all over with my tongue, feeling it twitch when I licked just under the V beneath his piss slit.

I heard the top of the lube bottle flick open.

"Turn around," he said.

I turned around so he could have access to my ass from where he was lounging on the bed. I went down onto my elbows and felt his fingers at my hole, lubing it up, probing into me, widening me so I could take his cock. Every touch made me more desperate to have him inside me.

I was panting, whining, ready to do whatever he wanted when he finally relented and got to his knees behind me. He smacked the inside of my thigh to make me widen my stance, which lowered my ass for better access. He put a condom on, and positioned himself above me, between my bound feet. My feet were pressed up against his hips, and his cock was right at the entrance to my hole.

And then he pushed inside me, not fast but strong, a relentless force shoving into me, opening me up. The pain was intense for a moment, and when he saw me tense up he stopped, his cock still deep inside me, the pain washing over me. I wanted to try to pull away, to get away from the huge cock that was tearing me up, but this was his cock. Master's cock. And I wanted him to take me.

I gritted my teeth and shoved myself back onto my Master's cock, taking it as deep inside me as I could. I pounded it into me, trying to get the pain over with, trying to take him deep into me. Loving the pain. I finally felt his body up against me, his cock as deep into me as it could go, and I stopped there, trembling, flashes of pain and pleasure rocketing through me, my ass spasming around his cock.

He pulled out a little bit, maybe half an inch, and then thrust back in. I whimpered. He did it again, just a tiny little movement, almost imperceptible.

He was teasing me.

Another tiny thrust, another moan from me, and I couldn't take it anymore. I pulled off his cock, just a bit, and then pushed back onto it. He didn't tell me to stop, so I did it again, and then again. And then I was fucking myself on his cock, rope around my neck, hands duct taped into paws, legs tied up like a dog's, and I was so desperate for my Master's cock that I was fucking myself on it. I must have looked like the ultimate slut, the ultimate cock hound. I didn't care. I wanted him to fuck me so badly, I'd take it like this if I had to.

And then he put his hands on my shoulders and he shoved me down onto the bed, and started fucking me furiously. His cock pounded into me like he was using it to beat me into submission, and I whimpered and I moaned as he brutalized my ass.

He grabbed my hip and pulled me to him, his hard muscles powering each thrust as his cock filled me up. He shoved me across the bed until I was hanging off the edge, my useless puppy paws scrabbling for purchase, but all he cared about was my ass. He dragged me back up onto the bed and kept fucking away, hardly breaking his rhythm as he manhandled me like a sex doll.

His hand in my hair, pulling my head back, his cock pumping deep into me with all his strength, he came, exploding into me, ramming his cock home time and again as he orgasmed.

Then he pulled out of me, shoved me aside, and fell over on the bed. He put one arm over his eyes.

"Holy hell," he said.

I took it as a compliment.

I edged over near him, and he put his hand on my head. I stayed like that contentedly.

"Hey, you want me to let you go?" he asked.

I looked up at him and shook my head.

He got a playful look in his eye. "You want to get off, boy?"

I nodded and wagged.

"All right. I gotta go pee first."

He started getting up, and I jumped off the bed. Well, to be accurate, I did more of a graceless flop off the bed, and then tried to scamper to the bathroom door. My Master got the message.

"My puppy's got a thing for piss," he said. "Makes sense. All right, get your ass in there."

The tile hurt my knees as I crawled to the shower stall, and then I was stymied by the glass shower door. There was no way to open it with my paws.

My master opened the door for me, and I scampered into the shower stall. He came in and stood over me, tall, muscular, magnificent.

"Roll over," he said.

I rolled over at his feet, my bound legs making the process awkward. On my back, I looked up at him, my paws up, my mouth open.

He gave me that grin, the evil one, and he grabbed the shower head, then turned the shower on. He cranked the heat up pretty high.

Then he stood so his junk was directly over my face. I was staring straight up at his astonishing ass, his balls, his cock half-hard above them. He was playing with himself idly.

Then he put the shower spray over his head, and the water started cascading down his body. Right onto me.

All the sweat from his day working in my yard, all the funk from the sex we'd just had, everything washed down over my face. I opened my mouth, I did my best to drink him in while he luxuriated in the hot water above me. My ass was still sore from the beating earlier, and the hard tile of the shower floor wasn't doing my any favors, but I didn't care. I wanted everything he would give me.

He took a step back and directed the spray at my body, running the hot water over me. I squirmed as it hit me, it was hotter than I liked. But then he lifted up one foot and he stepped on my cock.

His slick bare sole rubbed against my hard shaft as he played the water over my body. He rubbed my cock slowly, looking down at me with an expression of thoughtful contempt. I started breathing hard, thrusting against his foot, my duct taped paws splayed out on the floor of the shower, legs straining at their ropes.

I was just about to start cumming when he turned the showerhead full force on my face. One instant I was feeling that buildup at the base of my balls, and then next I was drowning in scalding hot water. I scrabbled with my paws to try to get away but he put more of his weight on his foot, pinning me to the ground, my cock trapped underneath it.

I held my breath, tried to turn my head, tried to shield my face with my paws, and then it was over. The water went back to washing over my body, his foot went back to caressing my cock.

I gasped for breath, sputtered, tried to remember the words that would get this all to stop. And I would have said them too, if he hadn't been looking down at me, naked, amused, his foot playing with my cock. This was a fun game for him.

It took him longer this time to get me close to cumming, mostly because I was spending my time eyeing the showerhead fearfully. But sure enough, soon my eyes were rolling back in my head, my mouth was open and panting, and bam. A torrent of water to the face.

He got me right in my open mouth this time, and I choked and sputtered as he tracked my head with the stream. He had actually let off my cock this time, and I was scuttling across the floor of the shower, but it didn't matter. He just kept the stream of water on my face, until I was panting in the corner of the shower, gasping for breath.

He came over and started playing with my cock again with his foot.

"I wonder," he said, "What you'd do to be able to cum."

His foot stroked up and down my cock. The showerhead was pointed at the wall above me and to my left, and the water from it was spattering on me.

"I know you'd offer me money," he said, "Like I'm some kind of whore." He put his foot on my balls and stepped down. I writhed and whined on the floor of my shower, bound and helpless.

"I know you'd be my dog," he said, "My little pet. My animal." He stroked my cock with his toes when he said it. "I know you'd eat my ass. Suck my cock. Take me up the ass. Let me beat you."

He paused, and that smile returned. "You didn't like that, did you, puppy?"

I shook my head. The water was getting closer and closer to my face. I wasn't sure if it was on purpose or not.

"Bark for me, puppy," he said.

Every bark meant ten lashes. I shook my head.

His foot stroked my cock. "You want to cum, don't you, puppy? All you have to do is bark for me."

I shook my head. I put my sodden duct tape paws over my mouth.

"If you don't want to, that's fine," he said. He took his foot off of me. "I'll just shower and go."

He put the showerhead back in its holder, grabbed the body wash and the loofah and started soaping up. I watched him, huddled in the corner of my shower, feet tied to my thighs, hands bound into fists, rope collar around my neck. And there, not three feet from me, was the man of my dreams, and he'd let me cum if I'd just...

"Woof," I said.

He turned around, shampoo bottle in one hand. "What did you say, puppy?" he asked.

Goddammit. "Woof," I said. My ass was in so much pain already, what was another ten lashes?

"You'd really take twenty lashes for me to jack you off with my foot?"

God damn it. I paused, hoping the question was rhetorical. It wasn't. "Woof."

"That's good to hear. You're a good dog." He came over, aimed the shampoo bottle at my junk, and squirted. He directed the stream up and down me, then put the bottle aside. When he put his foot on my cock, it was unbearably slick, wet, slippery. I thrust up against him, infinitely happy just to have the warmth of his foot on me.

He rubbed his foot up and down a couple of times. "Do you like being my dog?" he asked.

Forty lashes had just about killed me before. I had no idea what another forty would do. "Woof," I said.

He kept rubbing. "I could take you home and keep you in my kennel." He was tracing lines up and down my cock with his toes, leaning casually against the wall. "I could feed you my cum whenever I was horny. You could blow all my friends. Would you like that, doggy?"

I admit it. I'd give anything. "Woof!"

"I'd beat you when you were bad. I'd fuck you when you were good. I'd let you lick the sweat off my feet after I got through with work every day. That sound good to you?" he asked.

"Woof," I said. The hell with it. "Woof!"

"I'd start every morning by pissing in a bowl of cereal for you, how would you like that, boy?" His foot was rubbing at me harder, I was arching up to meet him.

I barked. I barked again and again, knowing each sound was going to cost me skin off my ass, and I barked anyway, because I wanted that. I wanted to be his creature, his animal, his pet, I wanted to live under his feet and eat all of his cum, and make him happy with me so he'd let me cum. I barked, and he stood over me, grinning down, cock in hand.

And then he started pissing on me, His stream started out short, hitting my chest and my shoulder, but in an instant he had it aimed right at my face. It was hot and it was bitter and I got some in my eyes and he was filling my mouth with it, and his foot was rubbing my cock, stepping on it. I kept barking, piss spattering over my face.

I hadn't even been aware I was about to cum until it happened. I doubled over, barking, as my Master kept his foot on my pulsing cock, pinning it to me. His piss stream played over my face, my open mouth, my nose as I came. I gasped, and breathed in piss. My cock pulsed out the last of its cum, and I swear I just turned into a puddle on the floor.

I lay on the floor at the feet of my Master, bound, beaten, drenched, exhausted, and content.

He knelt beside me and started untying my legs. The ropes were wet, so the knots were tight, and it took him a while. When I was free and I had my legs stretched out in blissful repose on the floor, he started peeling the duct tape off my fists.

"So, are you all right?" My Master asked.

"Oh fuck yes," I said. "Oh, shit."

Mike laughed. "Scene's over. Don't worry about it."

"Thank god," I said. "I don't know if my ass can take any more."

"It took a lot." He unwound a long strip of tape from my paw. "It's a very capable ass."

"Thanks," I said, and stretched my fingers out. Mike made short work of the soggy tape on my other hand."

"Hey, do you mind if I rinse off?" he asked.

I had just been begging him to use me as his dog forever. "Um, sure."

He got under the shower, and I got to my feet carefully. I was still pretty shaky. Mike moved aside, and motioned me to join him.

I stood under the shower, and I enjoyed not having it directed right at my face. Mike finished soaping himself up, and then started on me. He ran the soap over me tenderly, pausing at my ass.

"Damn, that's red," he said.

I peered over my shoulder. It looked like a solid mass of crimson. I didn't see any cuts, though. "Yeah. Nice job."

"Thanks." He rinsed us off, shut off the water and reached for a towel.

I admired his body again, the water cascading off the ridges of his ribcage. "I need to take up landscaping. Or start the Landscaping Excercise Program and make a million dollars. You're magnificent."

He ran his hand over his abs, grinning. "I do some aikido too. If landscaping was that good for you, work wouldn't be buttcrack hell most of the time."

"Oh, right, that one guy with the long hair..."

"Garrett." Mike shook his head. "The horror..."

When we were dried off and somewhat composed, and we'd both gotten most of our clothes back on, we made our way downstairs. I don't think I'd ever appreciated being a biped more than when I was walking down that staircase.

"Do you want a drink before you leave?" I asked. "Oh, hey, I just remembered, your ride is supposed to be here."

"Don't worry about it," he said, tucking his shirt in. "I'm parked around the block."

"You... have a car?" I said stupidly.

He walked up to me, towering over me. He had a shadow of that nasty grin on his face. "Of course I have a car. Now kiss my boots goodbye."

I gulped, then knelt. His boots still smelled of whisky, and of him, and I kissed the grungy tops of them like they were holy relics.

"All right, I gotta go. Thanks for a fun afternoon," he said.

"Can we do this again sometime?" I asked. My voice actually cracked when I said it.

"I counted one hundred and sixty lashes I owe you," he said. "If I come back, you're getting all of them."

I didn't hesitate. "Let me give you my number."

He gave me his phone, and kneeling there on the floor, I punched in my number.

"You're not not what I expected in a gardener, you know." I handed his phone back to him.

"We're actually all like this," he said. "We're all just waiting for the opportunity to take you and ravage your ass."

He was kidding, and I knew he was kidding, but I haven't been able to talk to a landscaper since without my cock getting painfully hard. "No, I mean, you're..."

"I'm doing this until school starts," he said. "Pre-med."

"Nice." I handed his phone back to him. "Please call me. Whenever you want. Whatever you want."

He patted me on the head. "You're a good dog."

"Hey, I just realized," I said. "Can I get you a tip? I mean, not for this, but you were working out there all day, and..."

"Nah," he said. "It'd be weird. Just give my crew a good recommendation when we're done."

He could pretty much have asked me to sign over my house at this point. "Sure. And thanks."

"Anytime. Seeya." And he walked out.

The crew was back the next day, but he wasn't with them. I made enough awkward small talk to find out that the company had gotten a big commercial job and Mike had been moved to it.

They finished up the next day, and my yard looked, well, not like a yard exactly, but it didn't look bad. I left a recommendation on the website. Excellent service. Would use again.

And then I waited, and nothing happened. No phone call, no text. My life went on, as they do, and I met someone else, someone who was okay with me wanting to worship the hell out of them every once in a while. It took a few months, but I stopped jumping every time my phone went off. I'd put it down, disappointed, my ass stinging with the memory of the pain, or the anticipation of all that he still owed me.

I think I saw him once almost a year later, flying down a freeway bypass in a beaten up old car, a sign for a pizza place on top. I almost swerved into a Buick trying to get over to the side of the road so I could put the number in my phone.

I must have ordered thirty pizzas from that place in the next couple of months, but no sign of Mike. One guy kind of looked like him, so he might have been the guy I saw on the highway, I could have been mistaken. I considered offering to be his dog, but only briefly.

Not much has changed. Work is fine, life is good, my lover is wonderful. But every so often, someone asks me what it is that I smile about when I'm staring off into space.

Woof.

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