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The dog-Boy nods his head, takes the rope and wraps it several times around my neck, then kicks my feet out from under me. I land on the damp, moss-covered ground beside the creek with a thud. It’s soft enough that it sinks in a bit beneath my hands and my knees. I understand that he will fuck me, and it’s not that I don’t welcome being fucked, or the odd circumstances under which it will happen. No. This is the life I choose. But too much of my mind is preoccupied by the idea that I may never see Master Erek and Master Séverin again. That I may never experience again that moment of absolute freedom to sink into my slavehood. To really lose myself for once.
You think too. Damn. Much.
I really am a masochist. I do this to myself.
The Dog-boy covers me and I wait to see if he will take my cunt or my ass. But as soon as the warmth of his body presses against mine, one arm going around my waist, I come back into the moment, and I’m already wet and eager.
He kicks my knees further apart, and I comply while the Mistress gives a low, delighted chuckle.
“Take her hard, my Pet,” she commands.
With a sudden jab he sinks his cock into my ass, thrusting deep, and his Mistress claps her hands.
“Fuck her hard, Pet.”
His hips sling back, then his cock drives into me, filling me up, although he is not as big as either of my Masters.
My Masters.
It’s not true, though, is it?
A tear slips down my cheek, and this Mistress assumes, I think, that it’s because her dog-Boy is hurting me. And he is, a little, although my ass has been very well trained for exactly this. And as always, that part of me that loves to be taken, humiliated, used, that part of me that loves to serve, is absolutely getting off on this.
The dog-Boy makes a high-pitched whining noise, as if asking a question.
His Mistress replies, “Yes, Pet. You may come in her ass. Or on her. Do with her as you wish.”
He rears up, pulling my body with his so we are both up on our knees, and both his arms are around my waist as he jams into me, over and over, faster and faster. He begins to shiver, and I know he will come soon. And while my pussy is wet and in need, it doesn’t matter to me if I do or not. Too much of my mind is still fractured, thinking of everything but the present moment, where I am being fucked in the ass by a slave Boy in a dog hood on a bed of bright green moss in this lovely forest.
Fantasy material for twisted fucks like us. But I’m not enjoying it as I should.
He reaches down and cups my mound in his hand, but the Mistress slaps his hand away.
“Pleasure for you, not for her,” she tells him.
I don’t mind. I feel some vague pleasure at serving them both. The rest isn’t necessary. My body isn’t seething with desire, as it did for the two Masters I dream of returning to. Only this mild ache that need not be satisfied.
With a groan he shoots his jizz into my ass, filling me with liquid heat. Then he releases me and rolls onto his back on the ground beside me.
His Mistress leans over him and rubs his stomach with the tip of a leather crop, and he howls in pleasure.
I’m on hands and knees; I haven’t been instructed to do anything else. I stay there as the Mistress slaps the dog-Boy’s stomach and thighs with the evil little crop, and he whimpers in pleasure, his cock going hard once more. She smacks the head of his dick with the crop, and he makes a growling sound, deep in his throat. She does it again, then again, and now, watching his cock being abused, need fills me, hot and thready, like a dark pulse somewhere deep inside me, winding tighter and tighter.
Yes. Please hurt him.
Oh, yes. I am a twisted fuck. But this is the way I was built. Or, the way my life has built me. Interesting distinction.
Thinking too damn much again.
I am not supposed to be a philosopher while in compromised positions. Or ever, really. But nothing has ever enabled me to stop. Not the harshest of punishments, the pinnacles of pleasure. I can’t turn my brain off. I can’t lose myself in slavehood like the others do. I get nothing more than the occasional glimpse of that respite. Nothing… except for that illuminating moment in the tub with my two new Masters, who I pray I will see again. And at this moment, I’m already getting bored with watching the puppy Boy get hit with his Mistress’s crop.
She seems to sense my disinterest—the best Masters and Mistresses always do—and she turns the crop on me, slapping my ass, my thighs, my back, even my upper arms with it. It stings, but not too badly. A crop, in these circles, is almost a plaything. A mere child’s toy. And I’m so in my head I barely respond to it.
She hits me harder, and I almost want to laugh, except that I want to cry, because my new and already-beloved Masters and their particular brand of cruelty are gone.
Finally, the Mistress seems to tire of this game, and I am relieved, because I tired of it almost as it began.
What a bad, bad slave I am.
