I hope you enjoy reading it.
Sobaka
I sat on a bench, letting the sun beat
down and warm my skin, and I watched. I watched people walk around, I
watched people stop to talk, and I watched people doing nothing more
than sitting in the same sun as me, to all appearances doing the same
thing I was.
But they weren't doing the same thing
I was. They were thinking about their classes, or their homework, or
some such thing. I wasn't doing that. I was living a whole different
life.
In my different life, I had the
courage to tell Katya the truth. I had the courage to tell her that
the letter Elliot had written to her, that nasty and insulting email,
hadn't had the effect that she expected or that he intended. When he
had called me her dog, referred to me as her pet too stupid to be
human, eager only for her -in his words- 'filthy cunt,' it hadn't
upset me. It had turned me on. It had excited me.
So I sat there in the sun and I smiled
as the conversation with Katya went the way I thought it could have.
I told her that I liked the idea. That I would be her dog, if that's
what she wanted. When I told her that, she smiled. She smiled and
smiled, until I got nervous in my seat.
“What?” I asked.
“That's what I was hoping you would
say.” Katya's accent, the Ukranian edge to her words, was sharper
at that moment than it normally was. “It's why I showed you the
letter.”
She bought me a collar and a crate for
a large sized dog. She fenced in her back yard and she put my in
chastity. She started calling me Sobaka, which she said meant puppy.
I didn't stop living my life. I went
to class, I did my work. When I was finished, I went to her place. I
knocked on the door. She answered, looking every inch the dominant
woman that I knew Katya could be. She wasn't painted in leather with
stiletto boots to her knees and a whip in her hand. Usually, she'd be
wearing jeans, or yoga pants. There was nothing in her clothing that
was any different from what anyone else would wear. But it wasn't
about what her clothes looked like. It was all in the way she stood,
in the look in her eyes, the confident swagger hidden in her smile.
“Welcome home Sobaka,” she'd say.
Then she'd let me in and close the door behind me.
I knew it was coming, every day, but
that never made it easier. But I knew better than to stop her, to
even try to dodge the knee that would come slamming up into my
crotch, every day. “Pohano Sobaka,” she'd say. “Dogs don't wear
clothes.”
I'd strip, every day, with my vision
clouded around the edges and the pain radiating through me. I almost
never noticed her putting the collar around my neck or feeling the
leash clipping on. Usually, the pain would still be there, and I'd
barely be able to crawl when she started dragging me across the
carpet. She'd start chattering on about her day, about her classes
and how much work she had to do, how much time she had to spend on
homework and that kind of thing.
Sometimes, if she'd had a good day,
she'd let me lick her boots clean. Usually just the ankle high pair
with the wedge heels that curved in on both sides. Sometimes the
combat boots, or the knee high leather with the nice heels that she
would wear to interviews.
While I was licking, naked in front of
her, she would tell me about her day. She'd tell me whatever came to
her mind. Sometimes it was just the chattering. Sometimes it was
important. Sometimes it was about the places she'd been, the things
she'd walked through, the care she'd taken to step in dog shit or to
splash through a muddy puddle. She'd tell me I was a filthy dog, a
sooka, a bitch.
When her boots were finally clean
enough for her discerning eye, she'd take me to the bathroom. Partially because she knew a dog couldn't be trusted alone in the
apartment. Partially because my mouth needed to be clean, even if her
cunt was dirty. Sometimes she didn't use the toilet at all, just
pissed right in my mouth, made me hold it there, swish it around,
gargle it, then swallow. Other times, she just used my tongue as her
toilet paper, having me lick until she was cleaner than she'd ever
been, as long as she was enjoying herself.
Eventually, she would go to do her
homework. She'd sit in her chair and work at her table. I'd be there,
between her legs. If she spread them out, I'd put my tongue to work
and slowly, gently, bring her to orgasm over and over again. She'd
smear my face with her juices, and she'd moan softly while she
studied her biology text books.
If she knelt on her chair and leaned
forwards, I'd put my tongue in her ass, rimming her until she kicked
me away. She never spoke to me while she was working, and I never
spoke to her at all. I just did as I was told.
Eventually, she would want to go to
bed. She'd let me out in the yard to piss if I needed it, just as
naked as any other time. Then she'd lock me up, chaining my hands to
the bars of the cage so I couldn't play with myself or get away.
In the morning, she'd let me loose.
We'd shower together. By which I mean she would shower and I would
kneel on the floor next to her. She would piss when she wanted to,
and I would lick her to another orgasm. She would use a towel, then
throw it on the floor, where I could finally dry myself, if the air
hadn't dried me off already.
I would put on the clothes from the
day before, she would take off my collar, and then she would tell me
I'd been a good puppy.
Then she'd open the door and push me
outside. I'd go home, take a real shower, change, and go about my
day.
Then, when it was over, I'd be back at
her place, doing it all over again.
Because all I could be, all I should
be, was her puppy. Her stupid dog, desperately chasing after her
filthy cunt. Living in a cage, less than human, barely even an
animal. The letter had been spot on, even though it was written in
spite.
I
take a deep breath and lean back, closing my eyes and letting the sun
shine down on my face. The things that could have been. The things
that might have happened.
Others
are probably thinking about exams, or about friends, or about sex.
But none of them are thinking about being Katya's puppy. About being
her beast.
I sat
in the sun and thought about what could have been, and I decided to
give her a call, see if she was busy. Because, after all, sometimes
things that might have been end up happening after all.
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