Family Pet

Part one.

They were a perfectly ordinary family living in a very ordinary house on a very ordinary suburban street. However, to be strictly accurate, it was called an avenue rather than a street. It was a fancier name, but it was still just a long row of three-bedroom, semi-detached, red brick houses built in the early nineteen thirties, providing work for a lucky few during that era of severe financial depression.

Number 139 was the end house adjacent to an overgrown and disused railway line now used as a public footpath and cycle track. However, apart from the odd dog walker, it saw even less use than it had in its final declining days carrying suburban passengers into the city. There had been some half-hearted discussion in this energy-conscious planet-saving era of returning it to use for commuters, but as the rails had long since been lifted and turned into scrap iron, that option had been dead from the moment it was raised. Cost considerations naturally overrode practicability and usefulness. 

Rosemary Avenue was a cul de sac on account of the old railway line embankment, which was good news for the very ordinary family living in the last house on the right, number 139. They were a family of four and owned the same number of cars plus one moped. A tad excessive by ordinary standards within modern suburbia, where the national average had risen to 1.9 vehicles per household. An attached garage on the rail line side of the house was unusable for its intended purpose due to the usual clutter people invariably accumulate in their garages. They could have stored all of it in the basement, but they had put that space to another and more unconventional use. 

The wall that had once fronted the small front garden wall had gone, along with a minuscule patch of lawn and rose beds concreted over to accommodate two cars, although the moped took up one space. Two more cars were parked at the rear of the sizeable turning space abutting the rusty railings protecting the overgrown railway embankment, and Mr Wilson’s pride and joy, a first-generation, restored Mini Cooper gleaming in its original British Racing green sat under a faded blue cover on the short concrete drive in front of the garage. The other vehicles looking right to left comprised Mrs Wilson’s two-year-old metallic blue Renault Clio automatic, her son's gleaming low-power Japanese moped, a recent birthday present from his parents now he was of age to ride one, the obligatory red and white plastic learner, ‘L’ plates prominent front and back. 

The daughter's small Ford Fiesta was parked by the railings, contrasting somewhat with her father's larger, more prestigious, top-end, company-provided BMW series 4 Gran Coupè. Then again, he held a senior management position in a large local dealership that primarily specialised in providing higher-end vehicles to a long-standing loyal clientele. In contrast, his daughter Susan was a student in her second year at the local Uni and found living at home both cost-effective and far more entertaining than sharing a cramped, smelly rented student house on the far side of the city. Her father had obtained her car, which was only three years old, at a knockdown price from an ambitious customer desiring something more appropriate to their aspiring social status.

The end of Rosemary Avenue was a quiet place for the family who, in any case, were out and about working or studying during weekdays when the local utility and similar vehicles used the turning space outside the house. At weekends, it was the occasional neighbour or a delivery van, Amazon, and the like that might reach their end of the avenue. Originally, they must have intended to build numbers 138/140 to occupy the overgrown plot opposite. However, that had never been built, and the plot had remained empty ever since, probably because no one knew who it belonged to, or so it was said locally. 

The Wilsons appeared to be a typical, ordinary suburban family who kept to themselves, minding their own business and quietly getting on with their lives. They were on nodding and hand-waving terms with various neighbours without being intrusive or overly familiar. Neighbours who were also pretty standard specimens of slightly more up-market suburbia. Primarily but not exclusively middle-class, professional, semi-professional working families or elderly retired people. It wasn’t a neighbourhood of curtain twitchers and idle gossip mongers nor of curiosity about other people’s activities, for the residents had better things to do with their time or, perhaps, better manners.

The only people the Wilsons were on regular, if brief, speaking terms with were those living next door, number 137 the house, their standard thirties semi-adjoined. The avenue's longest residents owned it, the two Miss’s Simpkins, older and younger sisters in their late sixties. Speaking was probably the wrong word for shouting, or at least talking loudly would be more apt for the elderly ladies were both somewhat deaf due to an inherited family trait. They were no trouble, though and never bothered their neighbours other than occasionally calling around to ask if the family had seen Tibbles or Tammy and other members of the tribe of cats that lived with them, all named with the letter T as a starter.

Thus, on Monday morning, as the sun rose slowly above the hazy horizon, an unseen horizon from the back bedroom of number 139 because of row after row of near identical streets of red-tiled houses stretching into the distance, all built to satisfy the growing metropolis’s voracious appetite for office and similarly employed working fodder a near century back. It was just another start to the working week for most of the Avenues residents. The junior Miss Simpkins was already up, dressed in her flannel nightdress and a floral housecoat, standing outside the back door of number 137 with a bowl of cat food in one hand and calling in vain for ‘Teddy, Teddy sweetheart’. The cat in question, being an eight-year-old battered Tabby Tom, neither chipped nor neutered, was a known local nuisance prone to spraying on the wheels of nearby parked cars and violently scrapping with those perceived rivals who weren’t precisely rivals because they had been to the vets for a snip.

Because of their hearing problem and the fact that neither of them could lip read, the two sisters tended to be rather loud when communicating with each other and then naturally with everybody else. Thus, all those residing within a certain radius who’d left their windows slightly open due to the clement weather were aware that Teddy had temporarily disappeared again. No doubt the roving randy tabby was AWOL once more, sowing his wild oats upon some willing or perhaps less willing feline female recipient. Teddy was a big boy, after all, and an exceptionally randy one at that, who never took a hostile hiss for a negative answer. 

It was just a typical start to the working week for all the houses along Rosemary Avenue and elsewhere. Normal people living ordinary lives and doing everyday things as they always did but with one exception—the household of number 139. Outwardly, number 139 was also completely normal, looking not too dissimilar from all the other houses, structurally anyway. Most of them retained their low front garden walls, with different paint schemes and windows. A diminishing number still retained their original up-and-down wooden sash cord windows while the rest sported more modern, aluminium and plastic double glazing units.

Internally, number 139 was similar bar a few more unusual features, likewise, the people living there, the Wilson family. It was an average name for seemingly average people. Not all that long ago, the name would have occupied quite a few pages at the back of the local telephone directory, now a defunct publication along with its sister, the Yellow Pages. A name nowhere near as common as Smith or Jones or even Williams, and these days, you could have included, perhaps, Sing and Patel and so forth, but common enough. 

An ordinary, unremarkable name for seemingly conventional, everyday ordinary people. A quiet, industrious, law-abiding, polite and unexceptional family living in a modest, commonplace three-bedroomed semi-detached house at the end of a suburban street. No different to a hundred thousand or more similar streets and roads throughout the country. Many of them, of course, would have also contained family pets, for the nation was a country of dog and cat lovers, after all. Number 139 Rosemary Avenue was no different in that respect regarding pet ownership….only in their choice of family pet! That was also where the Wilson family parted company with normality!

*****

Big tabby Teddy wasn’t the only one to have sowed his wild oats the previous night, emptying the contents of his pussy balls into another pussy’s pussy, so to speak! Whereas feline Teddy had slowly stalked and then pounced on the inexperienced, twenty-two-week-old new arrival from a local rescue centre, Master Roger had mostly sown his from the comfort of his bed and not just once. Teddy had mounted the startled smaller female feline just the one time because it had wriggled free, leaving Teddy with yet another bleeding war wound to lick. In contrast, Master Roger had emptied his balls three times into a far more experienced,  larger, and mature receptacle. One for whom escape was an impossible dream no matter how much he wriggled, nor had the young Master needed to stalk him. A simple snap of the fingers had ensured his victim's ready compliance.

Neither Teddy’s surprised prey feline prey nor Master Roger's victim had been willing accomplices in accommodating the lustful, eager male organs that had penetrated and violated them. However, while the young female cat might have escaped the situation given a fraction more warning, that wasn’t an opportunity afforded to the man who’d serviced young Master Roger, nor was it a surprise to him. Nor had Master Roger needed to use his tongue afterwards as feline Teddy had done, the licking he’d enjoyed being provided by his hapless obliging victim.

Being the youngest member of the family meant the lad had naturally been relegated to the third and smallest bedroom in the house. Space at the rear also being taken up by the combined bathroom and toilet, the top of the steep staircase, his bedroom and a narrow airing cupboard containing the hot water cylinder. Like most British houses, the house was decidedly small by some continental standards and most definitely by US ones. The cramped bedroom only had space for the basics: a narrow built-in wardrobe, a compact old dressing table and drawer unit, his desk with a laptop and small monitor, a games console connected to the wall-mounted TV and not much else bar some shelves supporting various books and a collection of Lego, Star Wars and movie comic book hero figures.

Right at the end of the bottom shelf, looking distinctly out of place alongside the assortment of Lego figures, were several pink sex objects—a vibrator, two dildos of differing sizes but neither very small and a large fat butt plug. Not the usual sort of thing you’d find in a teenage boy's bedroom, well, maybe the vibrator, but that would probably be hidden away in a drawer somewhere and not in plain sight, along with the other related items. A wooden paddle dangled from a brass hook screwed into the end of the shelf.

There was only room for a three-foot-wide single bed, but it served its purpose, both of them. Ironically, Britain had finally gone decimal with currency and then metric years ago, but some old imperial weights and measures still survived. Miles rather than kilometres was one example, and pints in pubs rather than litres was another. Beds and bedding, for instance, are still referred to and even made and sold by their old imperial measurements rather than metric. Not that the youthful occupant of the bed lost any sleep about that fact. It was a bed and fine for sleeping in and for screwing the family pet upon or over; what more did a healthy, randy young teenager need of a bed? Maybe something that didn’t creak and bang about so much when he was expending a lot of energy, but it sufficed for now. Given a choice between the latest Xbox or a new bed, that would have been a ‘No brainer’ choice for the young gent!

The bedroom window was small like the room and almost fully closed, bar a small opening at the top. Still, the shrill early morning calls from next door vainly trying to tempt the absent Teddy home had roused both Roger and the family pet half curled on the floor in the narrow space between the bed and wall heater where the latter had endured the usual fitful night’s sleep on the harsh nylon carpeted floor. 

Pet lay quiet and refrained from moving, thus not creating any sound. There was noise from above, from the bed, but that could be just Master Roger stirring in his sleep and not waking because of that insistent shouting from the silly cat woman next door. Pet couldn’t see the digital alarm from his position and could only gauge the time from the outside light, guessing it wasn’t that far off when the household started waking. 

The room was over-warm, for Master Roger disliked being cold and constantly argued with his father about the house heating. His radiator was always at the maximum regardless of the temperature outside. Juvenile spite, probably, but Pet wasn’t going to complain. Not that he could or would be allowed to do that, and even the rebellious thought caused him to shiver—an involuntary tremble born of terror rather than cold.

Despite being completely naked, his head shaved bald and lacking any form of bedding, Pet was not cold. Well, perhaps to be pedantic, not quite wholly naked. He wore the thick leather collar with its dangling name tag, ‘PET‘, and the stainless steel device they’d locked about his penis but nothing else. Wearing clothes was a distant memory, but he wasn’t cold. Of course, there were also the leather sleeve bindings about his bent elbows and knees that kept him in his low position, but they hardly counted as clothes, did they?

Uncomfortable, yes, that thin nylon carpet he lay on was no substitute for a spring mattress, but beds were for people, not lowly ‘house pets’. Not for sleeping in anyway, although he was no stranger to any of the beds the house contained, only as a short-term occupant and with no chance whatsoever of sleeping!

Monday morning, another day, another week, with no end to the ongoing unbelievable nightmare. Another day of boredom, humiliation and abuse. The latter being verbal, physical and sexual as it was seven days a week with no remission, no break, and no holiday. Likewise, his owners showed no sympathy, compassion, or mercy. They called him ‘pet’ and very often other things as well, especially Miss Susan, the eighteen-year-old daughter, the one he hated and feared most of all. It was a narrow margin, though, for he hated and feared all of them!

It was incredible, unbelievable, ridiculous, surreal, yet all too real. Just a few inches of plaster, paint and brickwork separated him from that world out there, a world denied to him as the captive pet to a family of perverse, sadistic crazies! Yet that was the big irony, wasn’t it, the crazy part of living with the crazies! Bizarre as his situation was, they were not crazy, were they? Not unhinged or deranged. Not the least bit gaga, nor unusual or out of the ordinary. They all lived perfectly normal lives, did everyday things, and watched the same TV shows as other folks in the evening. They wore the same clothes, ate the same food and talked among themselves like any family about the same things. The cost of living, the failing of the government, reality TV shows, sport (they all favoured different premier league football teams), the newly opened unisex hairdressing saloon at the end of the avenue, the son’s crush on a buxom local girl, Susan’s latest boyfriend and so on. 

That was the crazy part that perpetually nagged at him, gnawed at his reason so that he worried about becoming the crazy one in the household as the days passed, each no different to the preceding one. No different was also how the family seemed, an average clone of a million and more similar ones bar one significant exception, and that was him, the family pet! Those other families had a cat, a dog, maybe both or a rabbit. Perhaps a caged bird, a budgerigar, a canary, or even a parrot. A white rat, a guinea pig, a hamster, a gerbil or maybe something more exotic as was the fashion these days. Maybe a snake, some giant lizard, or a tarantula. But how many families kept something as strange and unusual as the Wilson family did, their own captive mature human male pet? 

The alarm began to beep with its incessant electronic noise. Master Roger stirred and shuffled above him, and the noise instantly ceased, replaced by a loud, extensive yawn; then, as that died away, the bed springs creaked. The wimpy little bastard had probably rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to recapture whatever he’d been dreaming about. The buxom blonde teen who lived a dozen houses down, maybe. Not that he needed an outlet for his pent-up teen sexual frustrations! He shouldn’t have had such frustrations anyway, not after having finally gone to sleep, fully sated and with his balls empty. Unlike Pet, who’d lain awake with the hated taste of sperm in his mouth and an anus full of his young Masters, recently relieved tensions!

The previous evening, Pet had been half curled up in his big, floppy, oversized dog bed in the corner of the lounge, his usual place where the family was watching television. Pet couldn’t see the big screen from where he lay face to the wall as required, but he could hear it and them, the four of them, his owners! It was Master Roger’s turn for him, and the weedy little prick never missed a turn, nor did his evil sister come to that. Initially, they’d had a rota on the kitchen wall that rolled forward each week, four of them and seven days a week as to whose bedroom he’d be spending the night in. They no longer needed it, for he’d been there so long that his previous life seemed more akin to a distant dream than reality.

Occasionally, he got a night off, but not very often, and slept alone in his spartan basement cage. But such occasions were rare, usually because the family was away for a night or even two, leaving him with his dry kibble, water bowl, and an additional litter tray. Alone but locked in an inescapable steel cage, six feet long, six feet wide and three feet high. His private ‘deluxe pet pen,’ as they called it, was complete with all the facilities a pet could want, food, water, somewhere to piss and shit and a couple of old smelly blankets to go with the rug he had for a mattress. The latter items were an upgrade from his early days when straw was all they’d provided!

Sometimes, someone, usually one of the adults, would decide they’d give his ‘service’ a miss for the night, but then one of the others would invariably claim an extra turn with him like he was some sort of popular toy. In a sense, that’s precisely what he was, something to be played with for the amusement of his owners whenever they wanted, for that was one of his prime duties, indeed his only duty in the house. He was a pet, not a working slave. A living toy to be played with, to amuse whichever one of his owners required him to provide entertainment in one or more unpleasant, humiliating, demeaning, and frequently painful forms! Nor did they ever seem to tire of their human toy.

To an extent, they all treated him the same way, yet each one seemed to see him in a slightly different light, reflected in how they individually treated him. His Master, the nominal head of the bizarre household, seemed to see him almost as the family pet dog, albeit in human form and invariably addressed him as such. Not once since he’d awoken down in that basement cage, disoriented, angry, frightened, and confused, had the guy seemingly seen him for what he was: an adult thirty-six-year-old man. Then again, why should he as he scurried about in his lowly unnatural position on hands and knees, unlike those other household members who stood erect on both feet as did all normal human beings? 

It was always ‘Hey boy, hey boy, you missed one, there along the skirting, go on boy, scoot, grab your chewy treat, go on fetch, that's it, well done, boy. Want another, yes? Here ya go, boy. Who’s a clever boy then?’ and so on. He’d get patted on the head or body and stroked like the guy might treat an actual canine. Then he’d resume reading his newspaper or watching a soccer match on TV as if having a naked guy scurrying about on hands and feet bent double chasing ‘dog treats’ around the lounge carpet was perfectly natural. Of course, it was to the family that held him captive, the family pet yet treated far more callously and cruelly than any normal household pet. Nor were such pets required to crawl upstairs every night to provide additional and more intimate entertainment for their owners.

His Master was shorter than him, a good head shorter almost, a head that did retain some hair, including a silly comb-over that he was always fussing with. He was also older, grossly unfit, somewhat rotund and past the point of verging on being obese. Cuddlesome in my middle years, the guy had laughingly termed it to his wife in the bedroom one night, patting his gross beer belly as he undressed prior to taking his turn with pet. He looked like the sort of affable, cheerful guy who ought to be wearing a grocer’s apron and running an old-fashioned friendly corner store or something similar and not a swish car dealer. He could turn nasty, though and had done so on numerous occasions when he felt his pet was being ‘troublesome’ as he put it, and that wasn’t counting those endless early months when he needed considerable ‘training’, another of their innocuous terms for the agonising horrors he’d been forced to endure day after day in the basement.

Troublesome covered a whole range of his perceived sins and omissions, but in the early days of his new life, it was his Master’s favoured term for his lack of cooperation, indeed revulsion towards the sex acts required of him. That was before all those ‘extra’ lengthy sessions down in the basement, mainly with his intolerant Mistress, to provide the necessary ‘adjustment’ as she termed it in his foolish attitude. Indeed, his Mistress had been very accomplished when it came to that attitude adjusting, and he’d carry the scars for the rest of his life to prove it. He was no longer ‘troublesome’ when he performed as required either downstairs or in one of the three bedrooms on a nightly basis, but never for his own gratification. Indeed, he lived in daily fear of being deemed ‘troublesome!’.

Pet had been a regular gym goer before his abrupt enforced change of lifestyle and occupation and could easily have delivered some serious and lasting damage to the smaller, bespectacled, unfit pervert who claimed absolute mastery over him. Likewise, to the other members of the sick family, only they’d never allowed him the means or strength to do so. It wasn’t just those hated leather sleeves on his bent limbs that controlled him. Every morning, he had to swallow a large pill, a worming pill, as his Master sometimes joked. Only it wasn’t designed to kill off some non-existent parasite lurking in his gut. Although he might have had the damn things the way his ever-hungry belly rumbled. Some type of drug he’d long since assumed that robbed him of bodily strength but not stamina, for they needed that, didn’t they? Nor had it affected his mind so that his situation's horror was not diminished. A living nightmare from which there was no awakening and no escape!

It had been Young Master Roger’s turn to enjoy the family pet the previous night, and he’d followed him up to his bedroom once a silly soap opera the family always watched finished at eight o’clock. The usual click of the fingers had roused him from his big pet bed in the corner to crawl obediently on elbows and knees, up the stairs behind his young master. The rest of the family had continued to watch the television without sparing him so much as a glance as he’d obeyed that commanding finger snap. Why should they when it was such a perfectly normal occurrence? 

Master Roger had been in no hurry. As usual, he’d headed straight for the bathroom to disrobe and relieve himself by urinating into the rose-pink toilet. The colour of the bathroom suite was an ongoing household topic of conversation as the Master hated it. Crapping on a ‘pink potty’ as he deemed it offended his masculinity, but his wife and daughter thought differently, whereas young Master Roger had no opinion at all. Besides, it was no concern of Pet, who was forbidden to use the facilities anyway! His role was to await upon his betters for their use and amusement as always. He had his litter tray in the basement, plus the designated dirt patch in the rear garden between the kitchen and the tool shed conveniently out of sight of prying eyes. 

Given they were always adding weird events to the Olympics, Master Roger could have pissed for England should such an event exist. He drank so much Coca-Cola during the day, and already, excess sugar was having its inevitable effect, as was his fondness for junk food and chocolate bars. His father was barely recognisable now if you compared his present form to the slim, awkward, curly-haired youth smiling nervously from the wedding photographs on the sideboard. The boy's bladder must have been outsized, for he rarely emptied it before bedtime, and it just went on and on an endless sparkling yellow stream. Pet would wait patiently alongside the youths bone white, spindly legs covered with a growing mat of curly black hairs like those on his father's body.

Not watching the foul spectacle was a ‘no-no’ for Pet. Masters cocks and Mistress’s furry pussy slits, if not being serviced, were there to be admired, not ignored by the likes of him. Look away, and a sharp slap on the head would remind him of that obligation, and if the owner of the hand that performed the action was truly annoyed, worse might follow later if his minor infraction was deemed ‘troublesome!’.  

Once the strong-smelling yellow stream had faded to a dribble and then a few drops, the boy automatically turned and tapped Pet on the head to provide that final and obsequious touch to his young Masters nightly ablution with his tongue, licking and then pushing briefly between foreskin and bulbous head should anything remain. Master Roger gave his usual shudder of pleasure at that last touch and rubbed his pet's shaven head briefly before the fingers clicked again, and they headed for the bedroom, one on two legs and the other shuffling on the equivalent of four.

Master Roger spent the first hour or so reclining on his bed, legs drawn up and apart, primarily engrossed with the latest Zelda game on his Nintendo Switch. Pet had spent the first half hour up on the bed, head down, lightly lapping at his master’s groin, licking his hairy balls and paying gentle oral homage to the erect twitching cock bobbing before him with its enormous bell end. Something else his young Master had inherited from his father. Lightly because his young Master wanted to feel relaxed and ‘twitchy’ as he put it, to enjoy both the game and that growing sensation in his groin until after thirty minutes or so, it inevitably became too strong to ignore. His hand reached down and tapped the bald head sharply with his knuckles signalling to forget the licking and concentrate purely on sucking that demanding stalk of bobbing flesh to another glorious eruption.

Even as Pet was swallowing a mouthful of fresh hot cum, the hand would wordlessly reach down, pushing his head away and then the legs would join it in pushing and kicking Pet off the bed to slink down alongside it and await his Master's next pleasure while his better focused entirely on whatever game he was playing. That was far more important than even sparing a glance or thought for the adult man on the floor by his bed, still swallowing a mouthful of repulsive slimy goo.

Later, end of level, chapter or whatever, Master Roger would put the device or occasionally a book away, yawn very loudly and head for the bathroom to clean his teeth and piss again. Before he left, he’d place his two pillows in the appropriate position, order “hup”, and point to the bed, usually again, without so much as a glance at the intended recipient. When he returned, Pet would be lying face up on the young Master's bed, bent legs wide apart, correctly positioned on the pillows, ready for another good fucking. There was no alternative descriptive expression within the family for that act, and no subtlety or polite covering term was used. Pet was there to be fucked, and they frequently did regardless of sex!

It never varied when it was Master Rogers’s turn to have him for the night and have him he always did, never missing his turn. Sometimes, it would be the wham bang and thank you mam vigorous shafting over the end of the bed that felt like he was accommodating a pile-driver in his rectum. The advantage was that it was never sweet but was at least short and infinitely preferable to the much longer alternative. Pet hated the alternative, what his young Master had lately taken to calling ‘a bit of practice loving’.  

Practice, no doubt for the girlfriend he didn’t yet have or for the buxom nameless girl at the other end of the road he fancied yet hadn’t had the courage as yet to talk to. Maybe Pet was the stand-in substitute for them as he practised his foreplay techniques on his hapless pet. That meant lots of caressing, squeezing and a ton of loathsome tongue work, but mostly this time on the receiving end. God, how he loathed that. Strangely, it was always the male members of the house that kissed, licked and Frenched, but never the females. They also liked plenty of tongue work but of a different kind and at a very different location.

Pet stiffened as Master Roger stirred again, snorted loudly and then, with a grunt, clicked on his wall-mounted bed light. He yawned deeply, then swung his pale, spindly legs out of bed, reaching for his spectacles. The boy was a junior version of his dad, only with lank, overlong hair, a greasy pimple-prone complexion, and already starting to show that excess poundage from his unhealthy diet. He’d also inherited something else via his father's genes, and it was sticking out of his crotch with its outsize bulbous head. Master Roger had woken with a big stiffie, as Pet feared he might. The lad often did a delayed reaction after the previous night’s activity, or maybe he’d been dreaming of the big-breasted young blonde down the road. Only she wouldn’t be the one tasked with reducing that big organ bobbing above him, would she? No, the young Master had another solution readily to hand. He was unique among his contemporaries; unlike them, he’d never yet had to wank once since reaching puberty!

There was a perfunctory knock on the bedroom door five minutes later before it opened, and his sister, Miss Susan, looked in. The pretty girl showed no surprise seeing her brother sitting naked on the edge of his bed, his hands around the bald-shaven head of an older man, naked save for restraints and the thick leather collar around his neck, avidly sucking on her younger brother's sizeable penis. Most of which his mouth and throat were successfully accommodating through a combination of painful training and frequent usage.

The girl sniffed. “Didn’t you get enough last night? Hell, I thought you were going to take all night fucking it! Jesus, that racket!”

“It's the bed springs, sis. They make the racket when I’m giving it a good hard shafting. The bloody thing moves about like crazy, the bed, I mean, they need to buy me a new one. Anyway, you’re one to talk the way you start sounding off at full volume when it's licking your clit!”

“Only towards the end, just before I climax, not for twenty minutes shaking the house to pieces, Dumbo! You never hear me making that clatter when I’m up his rear cunt, do you? Hell, little brother of mine, you and Dad haven’t half got some damn staying power. I’ll give you that! Send it down when you spurt if you want breakfast before heading for college. Mum had to rush off at the crack of dawn; remember, they’re doing another one of those early surgeries they’ve been experimenting with again for people on their way to work. I said I’d get it sorted and put it away for her today, but I have an exam this morning, so I can’t hang about either.”

Her brother didn’t reply as her head withdrew. However, he did murmur a moment later, “That’s it, boy, good boy, take all those sweet juices down, good boy”, as his pet received an early hot salty breakfast, then he delivered the usual perfunctory pat on the smooth shaved head as he pushed his pet away snapping his fingers. “Okay, boy, I need to shower. I can’t go to school stinking of smelly pet and dry spunk. Go down to sis now, boy, don’t keep her waiting, you know what she’s like, go on, scoot. ”

Pet did know only too well what the boy's sister was like and quickly dropped to his elbows and scurried towards the door. He knew what all four of them were like and, worse, what they liked! His time with Master Roger was over for another couple of nights. His official allotted rota time, that was, but it didn’t mean he was free of the randy little bugger. He was never free from their perverse advances, ever! Any one of them might decide to ‘play’ during the day, as they put it. Play! Another of their stupid little terms that meant him licking, sucking or being sodomised, and the latter not exclusively confined to the men of the house! Refusal and noncompliance were not options unless he wanted to experience the nastier ways they might play with him! 

That's when the word ‘play’ took on an even more sinister implication, meaning a trip down to the basement but not to his daytime cage. No, they had other horrible bits of furniture to confine him upon, even if he’d done nothing wrong and broken no rules. They called it stick time, another stupid term, and he would be the one getting the stick. Miss Susan was the one he feared worst when it came to wielding the stick despite what her mother had done to him.

Pet crawled away, slipping quietly through the still open door as he scuttled towards the staircase, desperately anxious not to keep Miss Susan waiting, only to be stopped short of the top step by an angry shout from behind as his primary Master emerged from the bathroom dressed only in pale blue boxer shorts with colourful Chinese dragons printed on them. His Master had a whole drawerful of the expensive imported silken garments, a familiar sight to Pet as was the sizeable male organ that all too frequently emerged from the garment. Likewise, the equally familiar accompanying finger click and pointing digit dictated which part of his anatomy would service the eager engorged phallus.

“Hey, boy!” Came the instant irate shout accompanied by the obligatory finger click. “How about showing some respect, you stupid mutt or do you want some stick from your Mistress again? Show respect to your owner, boy. Get here now where you belong, boy. Down, right now!”

Pet didn’t want stick from his Mistress or anyone else. That obese bastard wasn’t above giving him a thrashing if the mood took him. It didn’t happen often, but it had, and the bastard could be as savage as his wife, well maybe not, for it was soon over. Painful, of course, but the unfit guy usually ran out of steam pretty quickly, unlike his far leaner wife. His Mistress never ran out of steam and liked to take her time, his agony a sensual pleasure for her to be savoured to the full!

He hurried over to his Master as fast as his stumpy leather-sheathed legs would allow, which was surprisingly fast. Well, he’d had enough practice by now, plus plenty of encouragement chiefly from Miss Susan regarding mobility. To say that he was divorced entirely from the world outside the house would be inaccurate, for he’d been taken for walkies by the lithesome young Miss when the mood took her.

Never in daylight, of course, or when there was any risk of meeting other people, ordinary people who might find the sight of a naked man crawling on his knees and elbows at the end of a leash held by a pretty nineteen-year-old girl somewhat unusual. Miss Susan waited until dusk, and then they went ‘walkies’ through a gap in the fence adjacent to the dirt patch where he did his number two’s once a day as he’d been house trained. They could climb through the thick undergrowth up the old railway embankment from there, out of sight from anyone bar the sisters at number 137, whose windows were invariably heavily curtained long before the first hint of evening twilight.

Hardly anyone used the cinder track along the overgrown old railway line in daylight, let alone in those months of the year when darkness came early. Still, it was inevitable that they’d had what his young Mistress, cheerfully if callously, called a couple of near misses with genuine dog walkers on several occasions. Something he longed for but had so far proved fruitless as she always dragged him down the embankment and into the nearest bush regardless of how many damn thorns or nettles might be present until the threat had passed by. Nor could he cry out because she always ensured her pet carried his ball with him; actually, a large jaw-stretching red rubber ball gag not a play toy!

Once, while he was being nettled to hell, she even conversed with someone standing above them. Surreal it has been. He couldn’t see anything because he was deep in another bloody bush with his head being firmly pushed into the freezing damp foliage by his young Mistress’s right boot, but he’d heard most of the conversation.

“Are you okay? I hate it when Rufus goes down there rabbit hunting or whatever. I always get scratched or something trying to get him up here again. He’s an over-enthusiastic young pup, but most of the time he’s pretty good and stays up top, thank goodness. Did you get dragged down by him? I couldn’t see what happened; I was too far off when he bounded over to you. Is your dog alright? Rufus, Rufus, up here, Rufus!” 

 It was a young female voice that sounded a little concerned. Pet couldn’t see her, partly because his head was being firmly held down by the sole of Miss Susan’s boot, and what little he could see from his neck-twisting position was obscured by a boisterous young German Shepherd enthusiastically licking his face.

“We’re fine”, Miss Susan had laughingly called back up the steep-sided embankment into the darkness as she hauled the pup off him. “No, no, big doggie. No, up, up and go back to your owner, quick, that’s a good boy!”

On another occasion, they had evidently been seen setting out by one of the elderly cat-loving sisters who’d stopped his Mistress as she was climbing out of her car after Uni one afternoon to ask about her new big doggie. The elderly woman had caught a brief glimpse of Susan and her pet as she set off for a late evening walk. ‘Not ours, we just look after it for a friend from time to time’ The girl had satisfied the neighbour's curiosity and retold the encounter to much hilarity around the dinner table that night. If only the old woman had possessed better eyesight, Pet had thought miserably from his basket in the corner, listening to the laughter made worse because it was Miss Susan’s turn to have him for the night!