Illustration by Purplesong

A low whistle cut through the murmuring crowd.

 

“Well now,” came a smooth voice, rich with amusement. “You’re quick, Ransom. I had my eye on that one too.”

 

The older man—Ransom—paused. His gloved hand still rested lightly on the back of my neck. He turned, and so did I, just enough to catch sight of the speaker.

 

It was the female Elite with Red Shoes. She was much younger than Ransom, but no less polished. Blond, wearing a dress of emerald green velvet. There was a gleam in her eye like she was always two seconds away from laughter.

 

“Can’t blame you,” she said, nodding at me with a wink. “That Pup’s got excellent sensitivity. Buuuuut I’m also rather partial to Nutmeg.”

 

Nutmeg twitched and I realized he still had a toy inserted inside him.

 

Ransom didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. His quiet authority filled the space like a slow exhale.

 

The Farmer chuckled. “Well, you boys can both have a taste. Take 'em together.”

 

“Together?” the female Elite said, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. “How accommodating.”

 

“We always aim to please.” The Farmer grinned, and clapped his hands. “Bring 'em to the Playpen.”

 

My breath caught. The Playpen.

 

Handlers came over with the leashes. There was a wet pop and a gasp as the toy was pulled out of Nutmeg. 

 

Our leashes were handed off—Ransom took mine, Red Shoes took Nutmeg’s—and we were led through the pen toward a polished door at the far end. My paws—it was hard not to think of them that way now—tingled against the cool floor. My whole body hummed with excitement. I wanted to impress. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be wanted.

 

As we walked, the Elites fell into easy conversation with the Farmer.

 

“So,” the female Elite asked, “what kind of tricks do these two know? Do they roll over, beg, fetch the crop?”

 

“They know the basics,” the Farmer said. “Present, Sit Pretty, and Down. But I leave the finer tuning to folks like you. Part of the bond, ain’t it? Teaching your Pup your way.”

 

Ransom made a sound—just a soft “hm” of agreement.

 

“They’ve all been raised proper,” the Farmer continued. “Trained to submit to Elites. They know their place.”

 

“Good to know,” Red Shoes said cheerfully. “How rough can we be?”

 

The Farmer gave a dry smile. “Play rough. Test limits. Make a mess if that’s your pleasure. Just don’t break the merchandise. Any permanent damage’ll incur the full cost of the Pup.”

 

Red Shoes nodded. “Fair.”

 

“So what are you looking for in a Pup?” the Farmer asked, glancing between the two Elites. “They come in all stripes.”

 

Ransom answered, his voice low but clear. “I require a Pup with a certain level of sturdiness. One who can endure… vigorous play.” He let the words settle. “But sensitivity is just as important.”

 

Red Shoes chuckled. “Indeed. There’s no pleasure in a dull, unresponsive pet.”

 

The Farmer nodded thoughtfully. “Tough, but eager. I get your meaning. And stamina too, I reckon. If you prefer longer sessions.”

 

“Indeed,” Ransom said. “I can be rather… demanding in my attentions.”

 

“I like them playful,” Red Shoes said. “Responsive. A little mischief is fine, so long as they know who to behave for. And I do love a Pup who sings when he’s worked just right.”

 

The Farmer hummed thoughtfully. "Well, those two ought to suit what you're both after. Freckles there is mighty sensitive, if you catch my drift. Responds beautifully to touch. And Nutmeg's my sturdiest Pup, big and solid. Also a bit of a scamp."

 

We reached the Playpen. The handlers opened the door and ushered us in.

 

The door opened with a low hiss.

 

The Playpen was warmer than the rest of the barn—dimly lit, like a lounge or a stage. Everything inside gleamed with intention. Leather, chrome, polished wood. Loops embedded in the floor. Benches and blocks arranged like furniture in a strange parlor. Toys neatly hung in rows. A padded frame stood against one wall, draped in soft restraints.

 

And in the center of it all was Sammy.

 

Bent over a bench, his tail high and wagging, arms cuffed behind his back. The Elite woman who’d chosen him—sleek, sharp, with a high ponytail—had one hand gripping his collar and the other raised with a flat leather paddle. She brought it down with a crisp smack.

 

Sammy let out a muffled whimper and wiggled with joy.

 

“Good boy,” she cooed, and he shivered like he’d just been praised by a god.

 

Nutmeg’s breath hitched beside me. I could feel the energy vibrating off him—not fear, but anticipation. His steps were eager but restrained, and his back arched ever so slightly, a silent signal: Look at me. Try me.

 

I did the same. Head high. Chin tucked. Tail curled obediently. Knees soft but ready to kneel the moment I was told. My skin prickled in the warm air. My mouth went dry.

 

“Oh my,” said the female Elite, watching Nutmeg stretch his back like a cat. “He’s got flair. I like that.”

 

Ransom didn’t respond. His focus was on me. Even as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the nearest armrest, his gaze stayed locked on mine.

 

The Farmer lingered near the door, arms crossed.

 

“If you’re looking to see how they take pain, Sammy’s a good benchmark,” he said, tilting his head toward the bench. “He loves a good wallop. Nutmeg’s got some experience. Freckles here’s a clean slate—this is his first real play.”

 

“Oh?” said Red Shoes, eyebrows lifting. “That’s fun. Like breaking in new boots.”

 

Ransom spoke. “Inexperience has its advantages. No bad habits to correct. Just instinct to refine.”

 

I swallowed hard, even though there was nothing in my throat. My whole body hummed, waiting for his command—his touch—anything.

 

Red Shoes led Nutmeg over to a padded mat on the floor. Nutmeg dropped into a perfect kneel, thighs apart, hands palm-up on his knees. 

 

Ransom didn’t move to me yet. He watched. That same unreadable expression behind black-rimmed glasses. Measuring me. Deciding what to do with me. Like a craftsman studying raw wood before the first cut.

 

I held my pose and prayed he’d touch me soon.

 

From behind us, the paddle cracked again. Sammy’s muffled moan was a song. A promise. 

 

My knees tingled. I wanted to be next.

 

***

Ransom didn’t need to raise his voice.
 

“Present.”

 

The single word settled over me like a shroud. I moved without thought, instinctively—knees apart, elbows to the floor, ass in the air. My body responded before my brain could catch up. It felt right to obey him. Right to be still, to hold, to wait. I could feel his gaze roam over me, not like a man surveying prey—but like a surgeon preparing for work. Precise. Detached. Hungry, in his own refined way.

 

Across the room, Red Shoes had already stripped out of her heels. Her toes were painted a candy-apple red to match the gleam in her eyes. She approached Nutmeg with a swish of velvet and command in every step.

 

“Well aren’t you delicious,” she murmured, circling him. “All thick and twitchy and eager. You ever been fucked by a lady, Pup?”

 

Nutmeg’s throat worked, but he didn’t answer. He knew better.
 

Red Shoes chuckled. “Smart thing. That’s fine. I love a blank slate.”

 

She crouched, ran a hand under his chin, and leaned in to whisper something we couldn’t hear. Nutmeg shuddered. When she stood again, she was strapping something on.

 

The harness was black leather, polished and snug around her hips, supporting a thick, glittering toy that curved up like a challenge. Nutmeg watched her with wide eyes and trembling thighs, already rocking forward onto his elbows like he wanted to offer.

 

Ransom knelt beside me. Not touching—never touching first—but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. His breath tickled the back of my neck.

 

“Your training begins now,” he said, voice like polished steel. “And you will not move unless I tell you. You will not moan unless I allow it. Do you understand?”

 

I nodded quickly.

 

“Good.”
 

He undid his cuffs. Rolled them up, slow, each flick of fabric deliberate. He didn’t even need to touch me to make my breath stutter. I could feel myself tightening, every part of me tuning to his frequency. He was the center of my world, and I hadn't even earned his hands yet.

 

There was something about the fluid grace of his movements, the coiled power in his hands, that made me whimper with a strange longing I'd never felt before. An inexplicable pull deep in my gut made me want to crawl to him, to press myself against his legs and feel those deft fingers in my fur.

 

Across the Playpen, Red Shoes had Nutmeg bent forward on a block, his wrists cuffed to rings set low on the sides. She’d draped a plush pad beneath his hips and was smoothing a generous amount of slick lube down her strap. She moved like a predator in silk, grinning as she reached between his thighs and teased the head of the toy against his hole.

 

Nutmeg groaned.

 

“Oh honey,” she cooed. “Don’t get shy now. I’m going to make you love this.”

 

She didn’t thrust in right away. She rocked her hips in slow, circling pulses, letting the toy kiss and nudge at him without penetrating. Nutmeg’s muscles fluttered. His back arched like he was trying to chase it down.

 

I couldn’t look away.
 

Ransom noticed.

 

“Eyes forward.”
 

I obeyed. My body hummed with tension, desperate for his touch but unwilling to disobey.

 

“You’ll watch when I say so. You’ll feel when I choose.”
 

He brushed a single knuckle along my spine and my breath caught like a wire had snapped inside me.

 

“You’re going to learn,” he said quietly. “To ache just the way I like.”

 

Behind me, Nutmeg let out a soft, gasping sound—the kind of sound that only happens when you’re fully taken, stretched and filled and owned.
 

Red Shoes moaned in delight. “Oh yes, that’s the sound. Good boy. Take it all.”

 

She began to move, slow and grinding, hips rolling like waves. Nutmeg whimpered, but never pulled away.

 

Ransom shifted closer, finally placing a hand on the back of my neck. His palm was warm. Heavy. I melted into the touch like it was permission to exist.

 

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’ll get your turn.” He squeezed once. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

 

Nutmeg was whimpering now.

 

Not out of pain. No—Red Shoes’ pace was firm but controlled, riding him like a well-trained mount, her hands gripping his hips with practiced ease. Each grind of her hips pressed her toy deeper, grinding against something inside him that made him tremble like a leaf in a storm.

 

I could hear his moans across the room. Low, breathy, filthy. The kind of sounds a pup didn’t make unless he wanted the whole kennel to know he was being ruined.

 

Ransom said nothing for a long while.

 

He simply knelt behind me—close, but never too close—watching the scene like a director monitoring a rehearsal. His silence felt heavier than any words. I shifted slightly, just an inch, hoping he’d notice. Hoping he’d touch me again.

 

He didn’t. Instead, he spoke. His voice smooth, detached, and cutting. “He’s taking her well.”

 

My stomach twisted. I didn’t mean to tense, but I did. Something in me curled sharp and sour. Not because of Nutmeg. But because that praise—the one I’d been aching for—wasn’t mine.

 

Ransom went on, almost absently. “Good breath control. Responsive hips. That whimper—right there? Beautiful.”
 

He paused, and I felt his eyes land on me. “That’s what a good pup sounds like when he’s eager to please.”

 

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.
 

My body burned with jealousy and shame. I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to earn the praise Nutmeg was getting. Wanted to be the one split open, made useful, told I was good.

 

But I wasn’t even allowed to moan.

 

Red Shoes leaned in over Nutmeg’s back, tugged his collar, and whispered something obscene in his ear. He barked out a desperate sound—half cry, half moan—and she laughed, sultry and triumphant. The rhythm of her thrusts grew sharper, deeper. Nutmeg’s thighs quaked.

 

Ransom exhaled, barely audible. “She’s molding him already,” he murmured. “Fast learner.”

 

I couldn’t help it. My jealousy flared into something hotter. Needier. I shifted again—this time not subtly—trying to nudge back into his space. My thigh brushed his boot.

 

He stilled.

 

Then I felt it: his hand at the base of my spine, not kind, not rough—corrective. A single press, pushing me back into position. No words.

 

I was being punished with silence.
 

And it worked.

 

My stomach coiled. My cock throbbed untouched beneath me. I wasn’t just hard—I was humiliated. Made to watch another be praised while I remained forgotten.

 

But that, I realized, was the point.

 

Ransom’s voice came again, silk over steel. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way your body twitched, pet.”

 

He was behind me again, close now. I could feel his breath on my ear.

 

“Jealousy can be useful. A little competition keeps a kennel sharp.”
 

His fingers grazed my flank—light, fleeting, infuriating. “But don’t confuse envy with entitlement.”

 

Another moan echoed across the playpen as Red Shoes pressed Nutmeg to the hilt and rolled her hips. She crooned something loving and cruel, and Nutmeg responded with a gasping moan.

 

Ransom watched with clinical detachment, then finally turned to me.

 

“Maybe I’ll let you lick him clean when she’s done,” he said calmly. 

 

My breath caught. My cock throbbed against the mat. The thought made my stomach twist with humiliation—and longing.

 

“Would you like that, pet?”
 

I nodded slowly.

 

“Good.”
 

He stood.

 

I stayed frozen in position, trembling, aching, soaked in my own need and envy. I had nothing—but I wanted everything. And I’d crawl through hell for one compliment.

 

Nutmeg was whimpering louder now, wrecked in a way that made my stomach clench. Red Shoes had him by the collar and the base of the toy, fucking him with long, controlled thrusts, hips smacking softly, rhythmically. Every time she drove home, he made that sweet little broken noise. His knees were spread wide, tail wagging uselessly, panting like he might pass out.

 

And Ransom was still watching him.

 

Still praising him.

 

Still not looking at me.

 

I shifted again—this time without subtlety, whining low in my throat, butt in the air, thighs twitching with frustration.

 

I shifted again—this time without subtlety, whining low in my throat, butt in the air, thighs twitching with frustration.

 

Ransom didn’t speak.

 

He moved.

 

One second I was desperate and aching, and the next—his boot was on my back, between my shoulders, pushing me flat. Not hard. Not angry. Deliberate. His weight settled through me like gravity. I gasped, the air punched out of me in a wordless yelp, cheek to the floor, heart thudding like prey caught mid-sprint.

 

"Did I tell you to move, pup?" His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.

 

I whimpered again, couldn’t help it—splayed out and trembling under him. I tried to still, tried to be good, but the moment he took notice, even as punishment, it lit something inside me I couldn’t quiet.

 

His boot ground down, slow and steady. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to hold. "You know better."

 

I tried to nod. My tail tucked. My cock throbbed, dribbling against the mat.

 

But then came the real correction.

 

His belt.

 

The sound of it sliding free was a whisper, intimate and final.

 

Snap.

 

It licked across my thighs like fire—hot, sharp, searing—and I screamed into the mat, body jolting. But I didn’t crawl away. I arched into it. My hips lifted, presenting like instinct, like I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

 

Snap. Again. Higher this time. A line of pain across my ass that made my eyes flood.

 

And it felt good. So good I could’ve sobbed.

 

Because it was him. His eyes on me. His hand correcting me. His belt marking me.

 

I’d been so hungry for it—for any scrap—and now I was being punished like a real pup. Like something that belonged.

 

He knelt beside me then, gathering a fistful of my hair at the nape of my neck. Not yanking. Just holding.

 

"You don’t whine for attention," he murmured, lips almost touching my ear. "You earn it."

 

I trembled under him, mouth open, drooling on the mat. I wanted to bark yes. To whimper please. But I just breathed, fast and shallow, tail twitching against my thigh.

 

Then—bliss—his palm smoothed over the welted skin he'd just lashed. Warm. Soothing. Reverent.

 

"Better," he said, and the word rang through me like a bell.

 

He stood again, belt coiled loosely in one hand. “Stay. And watch how a real pup takes cock.”

 

Nutmeg let out a helpless yip as Red Shoes rocked harder into him, his moans going high-pitched and needy.

 

And I watched.

 

Burning.

 

Blessed.

 

Red Shoes kept him right there—on his elbows, back arched deep, tail up and twitching as she fucked him with long, hungry strokes now, no longer holding back. The soft slap of skin and harness and his stupid little whimpers filled the room. He sounded so wrecked. So perfect.

 

And Ransom watched too.

 

Watched her.

 

Watched him.

 

His hand rested on my welted ass, palm big and warm and claiming. It didn’t move. Just sat there, grounding me. Keeping me pinned like a good little rug. My cheeks stung, thighs trembled. My cock ached, untouched.

 

But it was enough.

 

I didn’t dare disobey again. I just pressed deeper into the floor, eyes glued to the way Nutmeg’s body bounced with every thrust. She was relentless now, using him like a toy, a training dummy with a heartbeat—and he was glowing under the attention, drooling and panting and pawing helplessly at the mat.

 

Then—

 

Red Shoes stilled.

 

Nutmeg let out a noise so raw it rattled my bones. The toy popped free, slick and soaked.

 

She turned toward me.

 

Ransom’s hand slid up my spine, curled fingers into my collar, and tugged lightly.

 

“Open,” he said.

 

My mouth parted before my brain caught up.

 

She brought the harness cock to my lips, and I sucked.

 

Salt. Musk. Nutmeg’s slick still dripping down the shaft. I lapped it up greedily, tongue working the head like it was a real cock, like I could please her through it somehow. I moaned around the toy, nose wrinkling at the heat and scent.

 

“Good pup,” Ransom murmured, rubbing my ass again. Slower now. Gentler.

 

I shuddered. The line between pain and pleasure, punishment and praise, had already blurred—but this? This ruined me. His praise while I licked another pup’s mess off her strap.

 

I sucked harder. Desperate to be good. Desperate to stay good.

 

“That’s better,” Ransom said. “Maybe you can learn after all.”

 

My tail wagged, thumping weakly on the floor, and I felt the smile in his voice when he added:

 

“Clean it all, little Pup. And maybe I’ll let you suck mine next.”

 

I moaned around the strap, humiliated and happy, soaking in every inch of attention like sunlight.

 

Because I was back in his hands.

 

Back in his orbit.

 

Back where I belonged.

 

I made an eager sound, hollowing my cheeks. Ransom’s hand stayed steady on my collar, guiding me, keeping me in place. I shivered with pleasure, my cock twitching against the mat.

 

My jaw ached from the stretch, but I didn’t dare slow down. Red Shoes pulled back, sliding the toy out, and I gasped, hungry for air and more. She grinned, not missing a beat, and thrust the shaft back between my lips. This time, she didn’t stop at the head. She pushed deeper. I choked, but she didn’t pull away. Just held it there, firm, until the feeling passed and I swallowed, taking more of the toy into my throat.

 

“There you go,” she said, voice warm with satisfaction. “Now take it all.”

 

I did. I didn’t know my throat could open like that, but it did.

 

I whined around it, a desperate, happy noise, and took her in.

 

She filled my mouth, my throat, my everything, and I was lost in it, lost in the stretch and the slick and the raw, overwhelming heat.

 

"Goodness," she said. "He’s a natural, Ransom."

 

Ransom’s eyes were on me, sharp and approving.

 

The praise made my skin tingle. My eyes watered, but I kept going, nose pressed to her hips, tail wagging furiously. Each thrust was a new lesson, and I wanted to learn it all. They pulled me apart and put me back together, and I loved it.

 

I loved it.

 

Red Shoes stroked my jaw with her thumb. “Let’s see how long you can last.”

 

She didn’t pull the toy out. This time, she fucked my mouth with it, slow and controlled, thrusting until my nose pressed against her hips and I couldn’t breathe.

 

Ransom’s hand was still in my collar. Still holding me. I pressed into it like a lifeline.

 

I took it. I took it, and took it, and took it, and the world narrowed to the shaft in my throat and the hand in my fur and the praise in my ears.

 

When she finally pulled out, I gasped like I was drowning, but I didn’t stop. My mouth didn’t stop. I licked and sucked and begged for more. Her eyes gleamed, delighted. She gave it to me.

 

“Again,” she said, and I did.

 

My throat opened, helpless and eager, and I moaned around the toy.

 

“Now that,” Ransom said, voice like dark honey, “is how a pup should sound.”

 

I shivered, and Red Shoes laughed. “Sensitive little thing, isn’t he?”

 

I was. I was so sensitive it hurt. My cock throbbed, and I could feel every nerve in my body straining toward them, toward their hands and their praise and their toys.

 

They kept me there, floating in that perfect haze, until my skin shone with sweat and my jaw ached and my insides felt like they might spill out from the need of it all. Then, finally, mercifully, Ransom’s hand shifted to my chin, tugged me off the toy, and lifted my head. I blinked up at him, dazed and panting.

 

“Down.”

 

My back hit the mat, and I spread my legs without thinking. My lips felt swollen and raw, and my lungs were on fire, but I assumed the position—right there on the mat, empty and aching.

 

Red Shoes removed the strap-on and lifted her dress. She settled onto my mouth, and I stiffened in surprise. I’d never seen a lady’s parts before. They were soft and warm and strange. I didn’t know what to do with them.

 

I wanted my Master’s cock.

 

Ransom spread my legs and crouched between them. “Any Pup of mine,” he said calmly, “is expected to obey my commands.”

 

He pressed my thighs wider.

 

“And sometimes entertain my guests.”

 

Red Shoes shifted on my mouth, grinding against my lips. Her scent was heady and overwhelming. I whined, unsure, and Ransom’s hand came down, sharp, on the inside of my thigh.

 

“Make her come five times in five minutes,” he said, voice a silk threat. “Or you’re no Pup of mine.”

 

I trembled beneath her, desperate to please, and dove in without thinking. I licked hesitantly. Wetness and heat slicked over my tongue. I didn’t know if I was doing it right, but she gasped and rocked harder against my mouth.

 

“Yes,” she moaned. “Smart puppy. Right there.”

 

I flicked my tongue faster, encouraged by her sounds, by Ransom’s stare, by the heat of her against my lips. It was different than sucking cock. Different, but good. I wanted to be good at it. I needed him to say I was good.

 

Ransom’s fingers found my opening.

 

I gasped against her, tongue stuttering, but I didn’t stop. Ransom didn’t let me stop. His hand trailed lower, thumb circling my shaft, teasing but not stroking, and his fingers slid inside, deep and unrelenting.

 

My hips bucked up into his hand. I couldn’t help it. The newness of it—the fullness of it—made me shake. Made me moan into her folds. Made me wild.

 

He crooked his fingers, and I came undone.

 

It wasn’t like anything I’d felt before. Hard and fast and dry, my whole body seizing, my insides clenching around him. I choked on a whimper, and Red Shoes cried out, grinding down on me as she came.

 

“Again,” Ransom said, voice like a leash. “Make her come again.”

 

I was dizzy, wrecked, breathless from the dry orgasm still pulsing through me, but I obeyed. I licked and sucked and nuzzled against her, eager and sloppy and desperate. Her thighs pressed to my ears, muffling my whines, and I could hear her panting, feel her twitching.

 

“There it is,” she gasped, and the heat flooded over me again.

 

Two.

 

Ransom’s fingers thrust harder. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t need to breathe. I just needed to be good.

 

I lost track of time, lost track of everything but the slickness on my tongue and the stretch inside me and the raw, bright heat of it all.

 

She shuddered again, moaned loud enough to make my ears ring.

 

Three.

 

I licked like it was the last thing I’d ever do, frantic and hungry, wanting to give her everything, everything.

 

“Fuck,” she gasped.

 

Four.

 

The world tilted. My vision went white. I couldn’t hold on. It was all too much. Everything too much.

 

Ransom pressed his fingers deep, and I came again, my small body wracked with it.

 

Five.

 

I was still coming. Still shaking. I could barely focus, barely hear the words from above.

 

“Oh,” she said. “Poor little pup. You broke him.”

 

Ransom’s voice was the last thing I heard before I passed out.

 

“Not yet.”

 

***

 

I woke up to the sound of moaning.

 

It took a moment to remember where I was. The Playpen. The Elites. The toys. The sounds. The pleasure.

 

My master.

 

My eyes fluttered open, and my body felt limp and raw against the mat. The world was a blur of color and skin and heat.

 

Red Shoes was crouched over Nutmeg, straddling his chest. His arms were bound behind him, and his thighs were spread wide, tied down with soft restraints. His cock jutted up, swollen and helpless, while she played with him. Her fingers worked his shaft, and two slim vibrators were pushed deep into his hole, buzzing so loud I could hear it from where I lay. He was panting, trembling, drooling—eyes half-lidded and blissful.

 

I watched, dazed, as she teased him with her hands and her hips, grinding down against his stomach, letting the toys do their work. He was moaning, so sweet and desperate, and I could see the strain in his thighs, the need in his eyes.

 

“Oh pup,” she purred. “You’re going to make such a mess.”

 

Nutmeg was too far gone to answer. He just throbbed in her hand, muscles twitching as the vibrators buzzed mercilessly inside him.

 

My head spun. My body felt heavy and tender and used.

 

Then I saw him.

 

Ransom.

 

He stood over me, shirt sleeves rolled up, black gloves discarded. The lines of his face were sharp, but his eyes were sharper. He looked like a man who’d been waiting for something to break.

 

And I was that something.

 

He knelt down, and I felt his hand on my chest.

 

“Awake already?” he said, voice low and calm. “You’re more resilient than you look.”

 

His touch was electric. I shivered, and my nipples peaked under his palm. He noticed.

 

“Sensitive little thing,” he murmured.

 

His fingers brushed over my nipples, testing, teasing. I squirmed under the touch, breath catching as he flicked them with his thumb.

 

The door creaked open, and the Farmer appeared. He took one look at the scene—at Nutmeg and me, at Red Shoes and Ransom—and grinned.

 

“How y’all doing in here? Got a decision?”

 

Red Shoes glanced up, fingers still wrapped around Nutmeg’s shaft. He whined when she paused, his whole body jerking toward her touch.

 

“I can’t choose,” she said, laughing. “I want them both.”

 

Nutmeg’s eyes widened. His moans turned into sharp, hopeful barks.

 

Ransom’s hand stayed on my chest. He didn’t even look up. “Freckles is mine,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

 

The words hit me like a jolt. His. I was his. My body responded before I could stop it, shuddering with another dry orgasm as he pinched my nipples hard. The world blurred, and I cried out, shaking beneath him.

 

Red Shoes laughed, delighted. “Fine. Have your precious Freckles. I’ll take this Nutmeg here. He’ll be an excellent addition to my kennel.” She gave Nutmeg’s cock a long, slow tug, and his back arched off the mat.

 

The Farmer’s smile stretched wide enough to split his face. “Looks like you both got what you came for! I’ll fetch the boys and get the papers ready.”

 

Nutmeg’s moans went high and thin as Red Shoes squeezed the base of his shaft. His whole body locked up, muscles taut and trembling. I watched, dizzy with envy, as Red Shoes brought him to the edge.

 

“There it is,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Almost…there.”

 

She twisted her wrist, and Nutmeg let out a yelp. He came hard, back bowing, come spurting in long, helpless arcs over his chest and belly. Red Shoes laughed again, triumphant, and kept milking him until he was a shivering mess beneath her.

 

“Good boy,” she said, stroking his hair with a surprisingly gentle hand.

 

Nutmeg lay panting and dazed, eyes glassy with aftershock.

 

Ransom’s hand never left me. I was his, and he knew it. Knew it the way a Master knows the collar he’s about to snap around a pup’s neck.

 

The Farmer clapped his hands, pleased. “Well, all right then! We’ll get you packed up and on your way home.”

 

He ducked back out the door, and I could hear him calling to the Handlers as it swung shut.

 

Red Shoes climbed off of Nutmeg, untying his wrists and brushing a soft kiss over his cheek. He blinked, blissed-out, and let her pull him to his feet. “Nice and sturdy,” she said, looking him over. “You’ll last me a long time.”

 

A moment later the Handlers arrived.

 

Nutmeg didn’t resist. He was limp and docile, eyes half-lidded, already slipping into the rhythm of obedience. Red Shoes gave him one last affectionate scratch behind the ears and stepped back to let them work.

 

A Handler gently tilted Nutmeg’s head up, wiping his face with a warm cloth before moving to his chest, arms, thighs. Another knelt behind and pushed his legs apart, exposing his slick hole, still pink and twitching from the intense milking he’d just endured.

 

Nutmeg whimpered and arched as they worked their fingers inside him, pushing a gel deeper inside. One of the Handlers cooed quietly, murmuring praises. “Good boy... that’s it… let’s make you nice and clean again for your Mistress.”

 

Then they turned to me.

 

I padded forward without hesitation, presenting myself, back arched, head bowed. They cleaned me with the same care: warm cloth over my cheeks, my neck, my stomach. They spread my thighs, worked the slick gel into my hole with firm, clinical fingers. I whined, hips jerking, cock dribbling onto the floor.

 

By the time they were done, both Nutmeg and I gleamed—flushed, prepped, holes spotless, skin dewy. I was dizzy from touch, from heat, from need. But more than anything, I was light with anticipation.

 

They were waiting.

 

Ransom stood tall, hands in his coat pockets. Red Shoes was beside him, her leash already clipped to Nutmeg’s new collar. It was pink leather, soft and high around his throat, the tag heart-shaped.

 

Nutmeg wagged his tail, eyes unfocused and joyful, nuzzling against her leg.

 

A Handler handed Ransom a box.

 

He opened it and pulled out a collar.

 

Not a plain strap like my training one. No—this was beautiful. Rich brown leather, with polished brass fittings. A thick D-ring in front. The tag was small, rectangular, engraved in crisp block letters: FRECKLES — PROPERTY OF RANSOM.

 

My ears twitched. I whined—loud, needy, eager—and crawled toward him.

 

He didn’t ask me to kneel. I dropped instantly, heart slamming in my chest, head bowed.

 

His hand stroked my hair, then hooked under my chin. He lifted my face, and our eyes met. 

 

I wanted to speak. I wanted to scream that I loved him already, that I would be good, that I would never want anything but his touch, his command, his use.

 

But Puppies don’t speak. Pups bark. Pups whine. Pups obey.

 

And I am a Puppy.

 

He slid the collar around my neck and buckled it.

 

It clicked into place like a key turning in my soul.

 

I couldn’t breathe.

 

My mouth fell open in a sob, but it was joy—overwhelming, mind-melting joy. My tongue lolled, drool slipping down my chin, and I barked—once, high and desperate. My cock twitched, untouched, pulsing against my belly. I wanted to come just from the feel of it, the scent of him, the knowledge that I was his now.

 

“You’re mine now,” Ransom murmured.

 

I collapsed against him, tail thudding, shaking with delight. My life—my entire world—was now wrapped around his boots.

 

The Farmer reappeared, brushing his hands on his pants. “Vet’s expecting ‘em,” he said cheerfully. “I told him you're on the way. Got the health chips logged and synced. All good to go.”

 

Ransom nodded. 

 

Red Shoes gave Nutmeg a tug, leading him toward her car’s open crate. He followed, crawling with slow grace, eyes half-lidded in dreamy submission.

 

The Handler opened Ransom’s trunk.

 

Inside was a soft-lined crate, shaped just for me. Water, feeding tube, and leather straps for transport.

 

Ransom pointed.

 

I didn’t hesitate.

 

I crawled in, turned once like a proper pup, then curled on my side. The Handler secured the straps around my ankles and thighs—not tight, just enough to keep me still for the ride.

 

Ransom reached in, scratched the base of my tail, then shut the crate.

 

And just like that, my old life was gone.

 

My new life—my real life—was beginning.

 

TO BE CONTINUED . . .