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On your hands and knees, like a puppy, that’s how you were most of the day.
Having a boyfriend who worked long, tiring shifts left you alone at home, roaming the house, bored with nothing to do. His existence was what you depended on, and waiting for him was what you had grown to do.
Sitting by the front door was one thing; waiting for the headlights to pull in, then for the door to shut and his boots against the gravel, but now… You wore a collar that jingled when you took steps–when you crawled, a little pendant with his initial carved into it, and you loved it, more than you should’ve.
He noticed your dependency early on; eager to be beside him, sitting on his lap when you could, and when you started to cry when he left in the morning, begging him not to go. He’d call you his ‘puppy’, the little thing that followed behind him on his hands and knees, you.
Now he comes home every night to you, on your hands and knees, in a collar, and in that lacy underwear he bought you–you’re desperate and whiny, knowing he’d scold you if he found out you humped the pillows again, leaving you to wait for his arrival.
The front door opens up, and there he is, gazing down at you; eyes widened and your lips parting, and he looks away from you, acting like you don't exist. You whine softly when he shuffles by you, casually hanging up his jacket and removing the hat he wears. He moves past you and into the kitchen, and you’re crawling behind.
“I missed you,” you say softly, your hands and knees moving against the tile floor. “I missed you… so, so much, I really did,” you add on, making your way towards him, on your hands and knees.
“I know,” he says calmly, his hands lifting up to open a cabinet, removing a bottle of whiskey. “You didn’t do anything today, did you?”
You shake your head, your hand lightly holding his calf. “No, I waited for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he mumbles, pouring whiskey into a glass, not even an ice cube in the cup. “Did you make the bed as I asked?”
“No, sir,” you shake your head, your collar jingling with a tilt of your head.
“Ah,” he nods, taking a long sip of the drink. “So, you did nothing all day?”
“Nuh-uh,” you say softly, nuzzling your face into the rough fabric of his jeans. “I couldn’t… stand it, I missed you too much,” you mumble, looking up at him.
He finishes off the glasses of alcohol and reaches down slightly, ruffing your hair.
“Disappoints me when you do that,” he says, crouching down to your level, taking your chin into his fingers. “Gave you a list of chores, puppy; not a single one is done.”
“I’m sorry,” you pout, shaking your head, and the collar jingles.
His eyes gaze down at the little thing around your neck, and he reaches forward, hooking his finger into the small metal loop, right where the leash usually goes through. He pulls you closer by it, and he spits right onto your face.
“There’s nothing sorry about you,” he says plainly, shaking his head. “I just see… a mutt who wasted her day, doing nothing,” he shoots back, standing on his feet.
You slump back and sit there, tilting your head to the side. You don’t respond.
“Don’t wipe it off,” he shoots, forcing you to keep the saliva on your face as he wanders over to the drawer, pulling out the leash–it’s in such a casual place, and that’s what turns you on the most.
You’ve had friends over, questioning the odd puppy-like things displayed throughout the house; the cage usually covered by a blanket, food and water dishes placed around the house, and a leash tucked away in a drawer. They’d ask why you had those items but no dog–you’d lie and say you were planning to get a puppy, only for months to go by, no puppy in sight. It was for you.
He returns with the leash and crouches down before you again. “What’s this for?”
“Me,” you say softly, pouting, saliva still dripping down your face.
“You?” he asks, eyebrows raising. “What are you?”
“Bad,” you reply, looking down at the ground.
“No, not bad,” he shakes his head, pushing your chin up. “Want you to say that you’re a dumb mutt, not just that you’re ‘bad’; you’re always bad.”
You pout. “I’m… I’m a dumb mutt.”
He grins and lightly attaches the leash to the front of your collar, and he stands up, rising to his feet. He has the leash in his hand and begins walking away, keeping you close, and you crawl across the ground. Your hands and knees hurt, forever bruised because of the routine, and you carefully follow him into the living room where he sits down onto the couch.
“Dirty puppies aren't allowed on the couch,” he says, sitting down onto the cushions. “I’m sure you understand that, yeah?” he asks, gazing down as you sit on the ground, still on your knees.
“Mhm…” you nod shyly, biting your lip, shifting on the ground.
“Good girl,” he says quietly, flicking on the television.
It’s painfully domestic; he’s winding down after work, watching television, all while his girlfriend is forced on the ground, a collar around her neck, a leash connected to it, and occasional tugs to remind her who she’s with.
“I’m sure you’re in heat,” he drawls out quietly, adjusting his hip. “Icky puppy been humping the pillows, hasn’t she?”
“What–no!” you quickly shake your head, sitting up. “I-I’ve been good… I haven’t.”
He tugs the leash, forcing you forward. “That's why I can smell your messy panties from here?”
Your lips part, and you swallow hard, only to be pulled again, a strong, harsh tug that makes you whine. He reaches down and slaps your cheek, pushing it away from him. He returns to sitting on the couch, leaning back and keeping his legs spread.
There’s an unfortunate pressure in your stomach, a constant dull ache from what you’ve been doing all day: lapping at the water dish, a humiliating way to hydrate yourself, but what your boyfriend wanted you to do. He had placed two dishes out, much too much for you to handle, and that’s the one thing on the list you did complete: drinking them both, completely dry, with your tongue, on your hands and knees.
“Sir,” you speak up shyly, adjusting your hips. “I… I have to go.”
“No, you don't,” he says calmly and shakes his head, not looking at you. “Good pups wait until they’re let outside, don’t they?” he drawls, taking a glance at you.
“I’m… but… I have to go,” you repeat softly, glancing at the backdoor.
He doesn’t answer and continues to watch the television, his hand loosely wrapped around the leash handle, and he doesn’t bother to look at you either. You whimper, shuffling closer to him, resting your chin on his knee. He reaches down and strokes your hair.
“Dad,” you whisper to him, and the name causes his brows to furrow. “Please… let me go.”
“No,” he says sternly, tugging the leash, causing a soft whimper to leave your mouth. “Grind on my boot instead.”
“What?” you ask, but the collar is yanked.
“Not askin again,” he says, lifting his foot, lightly kicking your thigh.
Your head tips back in frustration, and you slowly move closer, inching forward, until you’re sitting on the edge of his boot, your eyes flicking up to look at him. His eyes are focused elsewhere, leaving you to do it alone.
He nudges his boot, lifting the toes of it upwards, and you whine at the feeling; all pressure and warmth pressing against you, and you instinctively rock your hips, realizing that only makes it harder to control how badly you have to piss. Of course, that’s on purpose.
“Don’t be a mutt and piss on my boot, either,” he hissed, giving your collar a tug. “I’ll make you lick it up.”
And he will, you’ve done before, all through tears and gagging, and he stood there and watched you do it, a firm grin on his face as he forced you.
You’re rocking back and forth, pressing your clit right against the hard part, lightly moving, your eyes heavy and wide as you gaze up at him. He glances down at you, and he smiles.
“No cumming either, pup,” he drawls out smoothly, watching your lips curl into a frown. “Dad only lets you cum on his cock, not on his boot. You’re not that filthy, baby, I won’t let you be.”
A soft groan leaves your mouth at his words, and you’re reaching forward, grabbing his calf as you move back and forth, creating a solid friction that feels too good for your liking. He’s constantly tugging, letting your collar jingle, making sure that you remember you’re on a leash.
The pressure in your stomach, the feeling of his boot against you; it’s too much, and you’re beginning to whine, squirming against his shoe, and he’s not paying attention. Not at all.
And then the phone rings, a soft sound in the quiet room, right on the table beside the couch.
“Hello?” He drawls quietly, holding it up to his ear, and he looks down at you, putting his finger in front of his mouth, silencing you. “Mhm… she’s here.”
A confused look etches into your features, and he carefully pulls the phone away from himself, leaning over to tap the receiver, but just before he does it, he whispers something to you: “It’s your boss.”
Your eyebrows furrow together, and he watches your lips curl into a frown, and you’re shaking your head, hearing the soft click of the call turning to speaker. Suddenly, your boss can hear you, and suddenly, your boyfriend is assisting you, lightly moving his boot.
“Hello?” Your boss’s deep voice hums over the call, and your boyfriend licks his lips, nodding for you to respond.
“Hi… hi, sir,” you respond shyly, your voice breathless, your head tipping back. He surely can hear the soft jingle, your collar moving.
“You haven’t been coming into work,” he starts, and your boyfriend smirks, knowing he’s the one who’s been telling you not to go, keeping you hostage. “Are you handing in your two weeks?”
You pause. “No… no, sir…”
“You’ve been consistently missing work,” he says, and your boyfriend lifts his boot, almost kicking your core, and you bite down hard on your lip. “It’s unprofessional, making us look bad down here, constantly needing a new receptionist.”
“I’ll… be in tomorrow, promise,” you breathe out, your heavy eyes finding your boyfriend, and he’s shaking his head. “Maybe…”
“Maybe?” Your boss repeats, his tone shifting to stern. “There are many people begging for a job in the city, and you’re telling me ‘maybe’?”
Your eyes flash with horror, and your boyfriend is tugging on your leash, beckoning you to continue the conversation, to further humiliate yourself. He nods.
“I’m… just busy,” you babble, closing your eyes at how stupid that sounds. “Sorry—I’ll… be in.”
“Busy?” He repeats it back to you, and your boyfriend does it again, that light kick. “I do not have time for busy people—you either show up every day of the week, nine to five, or we are firing you.”
Is losing your job really worth this—humping your boyfriend’s boot while trying not to cum, piss, and moan at the same time?
Yes, it is. And your boyfriend is nodding, urging you to speak.
“Sorry,” you mumble, and your boyfriend reaches over, hanging up the phone without a second glance.
“That’s no way to speak to a boss,” your boyfriend drawls, shaking his head. “Sounds unprofessional, makes you look fucking stupid.”
You cower, your hips moving quicker and quicker, and he’s watching, tugging on the leash harder. You whimper, your lips pursing, your head shaking.
“But you are stupid, aren’t you, puppy?” He coos, his voice shifting into that soft, unforgiving tone. “Just a stupid little thing; humping my boot, whining and crying.”
He rises to his feet abruptly and lightly kicks you off of him—there’s no time to recover; he’s already leading you towards the bedroom, and you’re trying your best to crawl at his walking speed, but he’s purposely walking quicker, almost dragging you along.
The bedroom door shuts, and your boyfriend is walking you towards the bed, watching the way your limbs crawl up onto the soft mattress, already knowing to go on all fours; he smiles, taking a step back.
“Who said dogs can go on beds?” He teases, letting go of the leash, his hands finding the buckle of his belt, and he starts undoing the clasp.
Your posture is bad; your back is hunched, and you’re panting softly, trying your best not to piss yourself right now, and he’s shuffling off his jeans, closely watching you. You’re posed like a statue, just there for observation.
“And you got that full bladder too, don’t you?” He asks quietly, assessing you. “And you probably really wanna cum? Whole list of fucking things you want to do.”
You whine and bow your head, biting your lip, closing your eyes when you notice him circling the bed, going to the side where your ass sticks out.
“Haven’t been a good pup all day,” he mumbles, and you feel his hand finally touching you, gently rubbing over your asscheek. “Didn’t do… anything I asked you to do, tried cumming on my boot, and then… you almost got fired? For what?”
His words are drilling themselves into you, and he can see it in the way you hunch more, your shoulders rounded and your thighs trembling. You sniffle.
“Thought I was gonna give you a treat today, baby,” he starts, gently tugging down the lace underwear. “Thought I was gonna stuff you with my cock, make you feel all good… but that dumb mutt brain of yours can’t follow basic rules.”
He lands a hard slap against your ass, watching you jolt forward, and you whine loudly, barely holding in your piss at this point. And then there’s another slap, loud and cold.
“Makes me wonder… if we have to go back to crate training,” he threatens, knowing how much you fucking hated that; sleeping in the crate, locking you in there, sometimes leaving you with a vibrator while locked up.
It was torture.
“Or… maybe no more sex, how does that sound?” He asks, his palm meeting your ass in another hard slap. “No sex… not even when you’re in heat, when the only thing you want is for your tummy to be filled with my pups. That would suck, wouldn’t it?”
He can hear the mewls leaving your mouth, the soft whines and whimpers, the way you’re shaking your head, begging for him not to resort to these punishments. You whimper, and then he notices the trickle down your thigh.
“This piss or cum?” He asks, reaching forward, swiping away the droplet, and he’s walking around to the other side of the bed, where your face is.
He leans down, holding the two fingers in front of you. His eyes narrow, and his free hand reaches down to the abandoned leash, and he tugs it, forcing you to look up now.
“This piss or cum?” He asks, his voice stern, the mystery liquid glinting in the dim light of the bedroom. “What did my sweet girl lose control of today?”
“Piss…” you whisper, nodding hesitantly, and the wolfish grin hints at all things bad.
“Ah,” he nods, reaching forward, lightly pushing those two fingers into your mouth. “So, you can just make a mess on my fucking sheets? Because you’re losing control of your body?”
You whine around the two fingers, lightly sucking and shaking your head, your thighs trembling. Your eyes gaze up at him, filled with tears, glistening and threatening to slide down your cheeks.
“Always complaining about ‘dad being unfair’, ‘dad doesn’t let me cum’, ‘dad doesn’t let me piss all over the place’—do you know how fucking dumb that sounds?” He hisses, his words loaded as he withdraws his fingers and slaps your face.
He’s slowly circling around you again, and now he’s behind you again, and his boxers are sliding down his legs, pooling at his ankles. He sighs quietly, like there’s an impending punishment.
“You gonna piss first?” He starts, leaning forward, grabbing the leash, and tugging your head back. “Or you gonna cum first?” He asks, already aligning his hard cock with your entrance.
One hand holds your hip, and the other one has a tight grip on your leash, keeping your head contorted and tipped back, all while he slides right now; wet and quick, all eight inches slipping in with hesitation.
You wail at the feeling, and he’s groaning, his head tipping back as he grabs at the meaty part of your hip, bringing your ass to his hips as he thrists; they’re quick and hard, no time to adjust or try to adjust.
“For such a mouthy bitch,” he grunts out, his eyes gazing down at the curve of your back, and the way your neck is only being held by the collar. “You always… always shut up when I’m fucking you.”
And then you moan louder than ever, your eyes already rolling back into your head, stars bursting behind your lids, and he’s going quick and hard, squeezing over already there bruises. He’s lost in the feeling, disregarding your feelings completely.
“Needy mutt,” he spits, watching the way you arch more. “Whole body has just been begging for this, just wanting a cock stuffed inside of it, huh?”
You can’t speak, and he lets the leash go slack, your head tipping forward—it was on purpose, and he snaps it back on purpose, listening to the soft jingle when he does. You whine, tears streaming down your face, and you’re still holding in as much as you can.
“Clenching around me… so fucking much,” he groans, his lips part, feeling the way you’re reacting. “Fuck, keep doing that—be a good girl.”
You’re not even meaning to; you’re just naturally clenching, squeezing, tensed up, trying to hold back everything right now, and each deep thrust sends your body forward, and then a tight tug of the leash sends you back.
“Humping a pillow… my boot, that stupid vibrator; nothing compares to this, does it, pup? Nothing, huh?” He asks, and there it is again, a hard slap against your raw ass, but he grabs your hip once again.
“No—no, no, no, no,” you practically cry out, shaking your head, but your voice is strained, and your neck is red from the friction of the collar.
“Mhm… no is right, baby… finally using that filthy mouth for something good,” he mumbles, and he can already feel himself getting close.
He’s moving quicker and harder, and the bedroom is all groans and grunts, skin on skin, and your soft whines and wails, your head tipped back, your back arching, the collar jingling. And he gives you one final thrust, forcing his cock deep inside of you.
He groans, hunched over you now, keeping himself inside of you, letting his cum fill you up, that deep, warm sensation penetrating your abdomen. It feels so good, and your mouth is agape, your eyes closed.
“Mmm… gonna have my kids, aren’t you, yeah? Gonna let me breed you?” He asks, and you can feel him twitching inside of you. “Have my pups… good girl, good girl for dad,” he breathes out, nodding.
You’re absolutely spent, your thighs shaking and quivering, still trying to hold in the piss that’s about to trickle down your thigh, and he notices. He smirks.
“See…” he whispers, leaning up a bit more, tugging the leash, letting his lips hover by your ear from behind. “You’re not cumming first… or pissing first—you’re getting nothing tonight.”