Family Pet

Part two

“Now, scoot and don’t forget to be respectful again, or that fat butt of yours will get so much stick it’ll be glowing in the dark for a month; now get!”

obediently crawled away, working his mouth diligently, trying to defluff his tongue from the bits it had picked up, obsequiously lathering his Master's slippers. Still, they were at least relatively clean, unlike his work shoes or, worst of all, the fat bastard's rubber gardening boots. Licking and slobbering over fluff and street grit was one thing, but mud and rotten garden detritus were another matter. ‘Clean it, boy, lick it clean, get it all off for Daddy, there’s a good boy!’

Yeah, Pet almost gagged at the thought as he navigated the staircase on his stumpy little doubled-up legs. Cleaning those fucking green rubber boots took more than just licking the way stuff clung tenaciously to them, and once his tongue had dislodged the horrible clumps, there was only one option open to him. No, he couldn’t spit them out onto his Mistress’s carpet or spotlessly clean kitchen floor. No, he shuddered. He’d thrown up once, vomited all over the living room carpet, and his Mistress hadn’t been amused. Worse, she’d promptly taken steps to let him know of her displeasure!

He'd only done it that one time. Fear of the consequences was enough to override any natural instinct his poor stomach might have to get rid of such disgusting yuck! Similarly, if he refused to lick or swallow the foul debris. He recalled an old saying of his mother from when he was a young lad and had turned his nose up at a dinner dish: ‘Well, someone will soon find that hunger is the best sauce,’ she’d say as he went to bed without supper.

He lost his footing and coasted down the last three stairs, rolled over to try to regain his balance, and then scurried towards the kitchen door. Yeah, well, he could add one of his own, a far newer saying. Pain, fear, and utter terror combined to create a potent mixture when it came to chewing and swallowing on the…… He didn’t want to think about it; besides, he’d been fed far worse, had he not? Fresh from the source! His stomach rebelled at that moment as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. ‘Here, boy, here. Beg, Boy, beg for your nice, tasty special treat!’

He pushed at the partly open door with his nose, swallowing hard and resolutely putting such thoughts and revolting recollections away. None of them had done that for a while, and he wasn’t about to tempt fate regarding those ‘nice tasty treats’. No way, he decided, heading quickly across the vinyl floor towards his big basket in the corner. Licking piss off his young Masters's cock he could live with, even the more excessive variant occasionally required of him but having to beg for those other special treats….he swallowed hard again. Bathroom treats! It was probably their foul way of testing his submissiveness and how far they’d broken him. Well, they’d certainly succeeded in that respect!

There was a time that now seemed a lifetime ago when he would have laughed aloud, laughed right in the face of anyone who might have been foolish enough to suggest that he could be reduced to his present lowly, near-non-existent status. Not that he would have believed for one minute, not even one microsecond, that such a situation could exist, and yet it did, for he was in that very situation twenty-four-seven with no let-up, no holidays, and no reprieve, nor even the remotest hope of parole.

He was shattered, broken in mind and spirit. Although his body was not broken and still functioned, it bore a permanent lattice of burns, scars, and marks—a living record of his painful ‘adjustment’. A cruel tapestry scored into his flesh that had reduced him in body and spirit to his present lowly state. Nor was the chief artist who had worked on that human canvas fully satisfied with her handiwork, always ready to add new brush strokes to the old; only, it was never a paintbrush that his Mistress used for such cruel strokes!

“Basket!” Miss Susan was busy at a worktop and didn’t even spare him a glance as he scurried across the kitchen floor, merely pointing behind her back and snapping her fingers. “Now!”

Pet instantly obeyed, awkwardly climbing into the large triangular wicker dog bed in the far corner near the back door, wondering what horrors the day might bring. He’d noticed earlier how cluttered the underside of Master Roger’s bed had become again. A repeat of last time seemed likely, he thought gloomily, resting his chin on the wicker edge and trying not to drool as he watched Miss Susan cutting thick slices from a large wholemeal loaf and smelled the heavenly aroma of bacon frying in the pan on the stove.

Master Roger had invented a new and unpleasant version of the classic game of ‘fetch’ one Saturday morning some months ago. Pet was lying quietly, hoping not to disturb his young Master or, worse, to avoid an energetic start to the weekend- a continuation of the previous evening’s activities. He was unaffected by the hard floor, which was covered with a thin nylon layer of artificial bristles, as well as numerous crumbs, discarded socks, underpants, remnants of fast-food wrappers, cans, chocolate bar wrappers, and other rubbish under his young Master's bed. The boy was both lazy and careless, and keeping his room tidy was one of his mother's rules. If he was old enough to ride his moped on a provisional licence, he was certainly old enough to tidy up after himself. The only clean item in the young slobs' bedroom was probably the empty waste bin.

Master Roger, unfortunately, had been in an energetic mood upon waking that morning, and upon returning from the bathroom, he decided to expend some of that energy in his usual way. At least he had been to the toilet first, for Master Roger was a lazy boy who disliked getting up in the middle of the night, and why should he when there was an alternative and, to him, a more amusing way of emptying his bladder readily to hand. What a miserable existence. He had gone to sleep with a mouthful of spunk, been topped up by imbibing hot piss in the early hours, and would start his day face down over the end of the bed with his rectum full of yet more spunk!

“Better than press-ups to start the day, eh, pet! His young Master had chortled as he’d bucked and writhed under the vigorous assault. Oh, if only he had his old strength back and was free of the restraints that doubled his arms and legs, that might be enough for a minute or two or even seconds. Could you kill someone with your bare hands that quickly? Well, he’d give it a damn good try. Oh, the joy of wringing that sodomising little bastard's fat neck!

Wishful thinking, however, his morning soon got worse. Master Roger could find only one of his socks: the red Manchester United ones he favoured on home match days. Not that number 139 Rosemary Avenue was anywhere near the famous old club's stadium; the city of Manchester being nearly two hundred miles from Pets' suburban prison. Master Roger, like many supporters of that renowned team, had never been there and, being the boy he was, unlikely ever to make the effort to visit. Not even if he lived next door to the ground would he choose a cold, damp stadium in the middle of winter over an afternoon in the warmth of the lounge playing Xbox or watching whatever was on the TV… no contest!

He was an indolent little devil who, given his intense dislike of anything remotely active, probably couldn’t kick a football to save his life! If anyone were a candidate for being the last man standing when his peers were choosing players for teams during a school game, he’d be the last one picked, guaranteed.

He could, however, make a captive pet’s life utterly miserable and often did so as on this occasion. The grumpy brat finally spotted the missing footwear under his bed, nestled among all the other unappealing debris, and quickly devised a new version of fetch, doubtlessly recalling a recent promise made to his mother about his messy bedroom. A version that didn’t involve rubber balls, sticks, slippers, or chewy dog treats thrown across the room. Not that the pet could chew them very easily, no longer having teeth to do so!

Unfortunately, it did involve using his mouth. A firm “No, do it properly like you’ve been taught. Mouth boy, mouth. Like it's your blue squeaky ball, fetch 'em boy, fetch 'em all out!". The gleeful commands followed a few swift and painful slaps on his rump that stopped him from nudging things with his head or batting them out with his bent elbow ‘paw’. He was forced to squirm on his belly under the low bed, stubby, bent limbs splayed apart. He was aided by his Master's sockless foot pushing him down, along with the sight of him unhooking the punishment paddle from its hook. Nor was it just the single stinking sock his young Master desired; the lazy young slob had a habit of throwing all sorts under his bed, and it was to be a case of one out, all out!

Pet had unpleasant memories of that foul game, especially the ‘treat’ he’d ultimately earned while fetching the assorted debris from that black hole. Even now, the thought made him silently wretch. The word treat rarely implied anything positive in this foul household, at least not for him! On rare occasions, he’d been tossed a whole chocolate as a treat by his Mistress, but only after it had been ejected from her mouth with an accompanying “Ugh, hard centre!” Then her fingers would snap as she tossed it towards him. “Here, boy, here, treat time!”

The woman was a senior dental nurse and rarely ate chocolates, and only those with very soft centres. Naturally, like everyone else, she never checked the contents list provided by the manufacturers. At least she was refined enough to delicately use her fingers to remove the offending sweet, as did her daughter. In contrast, the male members of the family, being less particular, were likely to spit the offending offering onto the floor and then point as they snapped their fingers, simply because it amused them to do so!

Naturally, his Mistress generally rebuked them for their disgusting manners and inappropriate behaviour, but that’s as far as it went. He was still expected to gobble up the saliva-covered, half-chewed lump of gristle gratefully or whatever ‘treat’ they’d generously tossed his way! No doubt that was why Master Robert predictably acted as he did on that Saturday morning.

There were some shrivelled fries and the mouldering remains of a half-eaten burger in the dusty McDonald’s paper bag he’d had in his mouth when backing out from under the bed. They were old, dry, fluffy, rock-hard, and green with mould and age. It was inevitable that Master Roger had immediately decided they would make a tasty treat, a rare tasty tit-bit for such a ‘good boy’, and if he wasn’t dutifully appreciative, then there was always the punishment paddle he was holding to persuade him otherwise.

Pet hadn’t been a good boy, had he? It had been another of those ‘line in the sand’ moments — by no means the first such incident, but perhaps this time, the very last. Of course, he’d eventually eaten the horrible things just as he should have done in the first place. Looking back at the incident, he must have been mad not to have done so at the first urging or at least the second. It wasn't as if he’d been unaware of the consequences of such a blatant refusal!

He’d eaten worse than that, hadn’t he, in the past? Far worse, even if it had been ‘freshly produced’, as they laughingly said! He also had memories of that first time Miss Susan deliberately spat on the kitchen floor and clicked her fingers, uttering that one word, “Lick!”. It had been an early test of his submissiveness, and he hadn’t been very willing then, but the wicked girl quickly convinced him that refusing was not an option. Refusal was never an option for him!

Sniffing the enticing aroma as he watched her toast the slices of bread, he decided that if given the choice, he’d prefer to lap up Miss Susan's saliva every time. Even now, he could still taste those vile, dried-up, dusty green things he’d been forced to swallow under intense pressure. The very thought made him retch slightly. However, he should have known better; he’d been in that cruel house long enough to understand that disobeying and rejecting those ‘treats’ wouldn’t be wise. When had refusal ever been an option? He ought to have just eaten the horrible things, well, perhaps not willingly, but straight off, then his young Master would not have used the paddle on him so viciously, nor would the nasty brat have reported his ‘troublesome’ behaviour to his mother.

Pet cringed inwardly at that memory and briefly felt physically sick again as he recalled the subsequent pain and terror when he was dragged down to the basement by his Mistress and Miss Susan together for what they nonchalantly called an extra special and overdue adjustment reminder session for a troublesome, disobedient, and forgetful household pet. A session that seemed to go on endlessly, with him being brought back from oblivion using smelling salts and Miss Susan's gentle yet so deceptive words in his ear, only for it to start all over again as they attempted to cure him of his ‘troublesome’ behaviour!

Because it had happened on a Saturday morning, they’d had the whole weekend to give him the refresher he so clearly needed. It hadn’t been continuous, of course, although it felt that way to him. They’d taken breaks, either alone or together, to go upstairs and eat or watch their favourite TV shows with the male members of the family before returning, one or both, to that relentless attempt to correct his so-called troublesome attitude. Miss Susan was an avid ‘Love Island’ fan and had calmly settled into a comfortable chair to recount the latest episode to her mother while he screamed, writhed, and begged in vain as the girl sat just feet away, talking trivial nonsense with such calmness!

His additional surge of resistance hadn’t been helpful, of course, and that had also been very foolish of him, likewise pleading with them both not to hurt him again. Still, more idiocy on his part as pain and terror drove all sense of reason from him, which only irritated them further. Pet didn’t have a voice; pet didn’t speak or shouldn’t talk. Dumb, household pets like him only whimpered or whined to indicate they were hungry or needed to go outside to the pee-pee and pooh patch. Spoken words, anything resembling human interaction or intelligence, were not permitted, and such transgressions were swiftly and severely punished. 

His initial rebellion that Saturday morning arose from pent-up anger, frustration, and despair, all fuelled by discomfort, misery, and humiliation. That foul treatment from Master Roger was merely the catalyst that sparked it. Fear was momentarily banished, which quickly proved to be a major, indeed monumental, mistake on his part. He hadn’t intended to rebel, but even the most oppressed worm can turn, and he was no worm, nor had he been in his previous existence. As the red mist descended, he became himself again for a few brief, reckless seconds. The weak spot in the dam wall gave way, the overfilled balloon burst, and the deep-sea submersible sank a few fathoms too deep! Yet the price for those few rebellious seconds was almost more than his poor body could bear, but pay he must, for there was no alternative!

His Master nearly choked on his late Saturday breakfast, finding the incident highly amusing, much to his son's irritation, as the lad recounted how their ‘toothless’ pet had refused to cooperate and even tried to ‘bite’ him! The ladies of the house were less amused, both growing angry—livid, no doubt, incensed that all their previous efforts seemed to have been wasted on him. Miss Susan appeared even more outraged than her mother, who had been his main tormentor and was, despite her husband's posturing, the actual head of the bizarre household.

The only consolation, if one could call it that, was that Master Roger had also received a brief reprimand from his older sister for his pathetic handling of a simple disciplinary situation. The sullen look he’d given his cringing pet didn’t bode well for the future, but that was irrelevant. It was the present that mattered, and the glances and words directed at him from the women, both young and old, terrified him, and with good reason. It wouldn’t be their tongues that would lash him. What would an additional ten, even twenty minutes at the end of his young Master’s wooden paddle have been compared to those two angry hellions?

He’d never rebelled or transgressed to such an extent before, well, not recently, and he never would again; they’d seen to that. When it was finally over, he could barely crawl across the floor to lick his Mistress’s shoes with his tongue, as well as the hands that had inflicted so much pain. He owed them thanks, and since speech was strictly forbidden, his damp tongue had to convey his submission, his proper attitude, and his gratitude to those who housed, fed, and ‘cared’ for him. Those who owned and used him in whatever perverse way they pleased.

He had been on his best behaviour ever since, but that didn’t guarantee safety. Even a casual, unintentional side glance at a newspaper on the coffee table could provoke instant collective outrage, swiftly followed by a painful response. Newspapers were not for pets, unless they were lining his litter tray or rolled up and used to smack him on the nose. He could live with being smacked on the nose like that, but being dragged back to the caller was something else. He didn’t want another session down there, and he had tried to be a good pet since then, hadn’t he?

There was a time when even the two of them would have struggled to take him anywhere, but that was back in his pre-pet life, before the routine of his daily pill and his yummy brekkie bowl of dog food and leftovers. Every morning, his Mistress or Miss Susan would give the seemingly obligatory finger snap, followed by the command ‘tongue’. Strange how it was always the females, for he couldn’t recall a single instance of the menfolk doing it. Then again, they rarely did anything around the kitchen other than, on rare occasions, fill the dishwasher. It was a very conventional household in that respect.

It was that bloody pill. His pet pill, they called it. Every other morning, they placed a large, pink, and white object on his tongue, and then he had to chew and swallow. It tasted vile and made him nauseous for a few moments, and he knew it was that damned pill that sapped his strength, making him feel so weak that even Master Roger could easily push or pull him around like a rag doll as it pleased him. That, combined with the unyielding sleeves on his knees and elbows that immobilised his limbs, reduced him to such a lowly, helpless state. Hell, even a five-year-old toddler could have controlled him!

Every alternate day, he had to lift his head and stick out his tongue for that pill, and afterwards, when they checked to see that he had been a good boy and eaten the horrible thing. His tongue now stuck out quite far and had done so since his Mistress carried out an excruciating procedure in his lower mouth with a scalpel. He didn’t quite know what it was, and probably never would, since they wouldn’t tell him, would they? He understood why they had done it, though, and it wasn’t just because of responding to that finger click and the downward digit along with the command ‘boot or shoe’, whereupon he would have to lick and slobber over whoever had given that command’s footwear. That had been far too common in the early days of his captivity, a test of his obedience to his new owners!

He must have licked and swallowed a truckload of dust and filth off their diverse footwear by now, and Miss Susan was by far the worst and most demanding, especially because she had a passion for boots. Ankle boots, calf-length, knee-high, cowgirl, even a pair of spike-heeled thigh boots, although she only ever wore the latter upstairs when lying on her bed with her legs apart and nothing else on. That was the main reason his Mistress had ensured he could extend his tongue longer than usual! Boots and shoes took second place to that need for his tongue to reach just that little bit further when the females required its attentive service.

Boots of any size offered a greater surface area than shoes, and Miss Susan was not one to tolerate a lack of effort on his part. She was particularly adept at encouraging more oral enthusiasm from him when he attended to her collection or elsewhere when she desired. Entering her bedroom and following on her heels, one of his tasks was to pay homage to any footwear outside her wardrobes and storage areas. Not just footwear, either. Although the girl preferred neatness and order compared to her slovenly brother, there were always casual ‘discards’ lying about when it was her night for him: a bra, worn panties, socks, and so on. 

Naturally, he was expected to pay proper tongue homage to such items, then pick them up with his mouth and reverently carry them to the designated pink crate. "Tops, bottoms, undies, laundry", the labels read, for Miss Susan was a very organised young lady. He had baulked at the task only once. Her panties suggested that it must be that time of the month for his young Mistress, but of course, that was irrelevant as far as she was concerned. He had respectfully carried them to the appropriate pink plastic crate twenty minutes later, and anyone observing his rear might have concluded that it was also his time of the month!

As the eldest sibling, her bedroom was considerably larger than her brother's, which had once been called the ‘box room’ for some unclear reason—perhaps because of its small, box-like shape. Her brother was happy to leave the pet curled up by his bed while he did other things, like playing on his Nintendo Switch, but Miss Susan wasn’t as inclined. In her view, he had the whole day, or at least much of it during weekdays, to be lazy in the basement cage, so he could be useful and earn his keep!

She wasn’t prudish or anything like that, for she behaved no doubt, as did any other teenage girl in her bedroom, but she took no notice of him, whatever. He was there because it was her turn and he’d automatically obeyed her finger snap and crawled upstairs behind the young bitch, both of them knowing he dared not do otherwise. The girl would use him sexually when she was ready. Until then, he was of no account, a nonentity, a mere thing that might as well make itself useful licking her discarded footwear clean until his altered and extended tongue and toothless mouth were required elsewhere, or worse, his ‘bitch’ orifice!

He suddenly shivered in his basket as if they had opened the door and let a chilling winter blast sweep in to cover his nudity. Talk about the Dark Ages and medieval torture! He had gone on a four-day trip to London years ago when he was in junior school, and one of the places they visited was the famous waxworks, Madame Tussauds. The lifelike figures of kings, queens, and other well-known figures on the upper floors didn't bother him in the slightest, but the basement Chamber of Horrors had terrified him as an impressionable ten-year-old. The notorious murderers didn't trouble him, but the depictions of ancient punishments and execution devices, along with the graphic effects on their victims, had given him nightmares for months!

Those old childhood terrors and half-forgotten images, now seemingly insignificant and irrelevant compared to the modern horrors he’d suffered and chief among those that now haunted him was

the day they ‘neutered’ his mouth, as they called it! The morning when the ladies of the house had unceremoniously dragged him from his cage and lifted him bodily onto the table to which they frequently strapped him for whatever devilry they had planned. That morning, that weekend, they’d outdone themselves in terms of evil most foul! Unusually, they’d immobilised him face up, denying themselves access to his back and rump, which had been the primary targets since he’d first awoken in that horrible basement. His first terrified thoughts had been that they might attack his groin again; his cock and balls hadn’t been immune from their attention, despite his penis being imprisoned in a plastic tube. The head of his cock bulged out, and the daughter in particular seemed to find that an entertaining target for the flappy tip of a riding crop!

He’d had a brief moment of relief when he realised it was the opposite end of his body destined for their undivided attention that weekend. Even thinking about it now…well, yes, he’d learned just how wicked, callous, and sadistic they could be. Worse, those terrible dental pliers had convinced him that his situation was indeed hopeless, that there would be no rescue, no change of heart, and no release from the madhouse. His incarceration was not some temporary aberration by a bunch of crazies! His destiny was to be the permanent pet, the toothless sex pet of these merciless fiends in human form!

A realisation that grew and became more specific with each and every tooth his Mistress efficiently removed, and did so seemingly with no concern for him whatsoever, while chatting to her daughter about trivia! He’d been helpless; his limbs doubled up and useless, sticking upwards like an amputee's stumps. His body was strapped securely to that table, and his head was held firmly by Miss Susan as her mother worked on or rather within, his mouth. At least he’d been spared the agonies of dental torture, for the evil woman had numbed his gums and kept numbing him, but not for his benefit.

Miss Susan sounded a little disappointed when her mother prepared the needle to numb him. Her mother explained that it was mainly to make things easier for them, so they could complete the job quickly with minimal risk to the patient, as it was bound to have an effect. Patient! Minimal risk! What a joke that was, and of course, it had an impact both mentally and physically. Before that unbelievable session, he had only ever needed two minor fillings and a crown to replace a tooth he had broken in a minor motorcycle accident when he was eighteen.

The woman might be a senior dental nurse at a busy local surgery. Still, even so, he’d never heard or read anything about them performing extractions or any other dental procedures apart from assisting properly qualified dentists. She was competent, though, and ruthlessly efficient, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop her. Not with several dental clamps holding his mouth wide open and Miss Susan’s unyielding grip on his head. Ironically, those clamps had caused him far more pain than the extractions bar, a couple of which had proved a tad stubborn, but not for long!

Pet stared moodily out from his basket, running ‘enhanced’ tongue around his mouth in a reflex gesture as he recalled that dreadful weekend. It hadn’t just been the vile act they’d committed against him, but in a sense, what it represented. ‘To make him useful and safe’ had been his Mistress’s words. Useful! Safe! He’d effectively been declawed like a pet cat destined to spend its entire life indoors, and that was what they intended for him. The terrible deed had been done entirely for their benefit, not his

Up to that point, he’d still harboured hope that he might somehow be rescued, or perhaps the evil bastards would tire of their crazy games and release him. The whole thing was inconceivable, unimaginable—a hideous nightmare from which he couldn’t wake, no matter how hard he tried. It must surely end, but that hope had died as his mouth said goodbye to that first tooth! Yes, he was now a designer pet, a pleasure pet, designed to suck, lick, and slurp but never to bite! He only had one consolation: thank God she hadn’t been a medical surgeon or something like that. Had she been, then his stumpy little doubled-up arms and legs might have become real stumps, for the woman was ruthlessly objective and quite without pity!

Every third weekend, he briefly had the chance to feel whole again, to extend his limbs, even though it was sheer, unadulterated agony. Not that he could refuse, nor did he want to, because he was terrified that his limbs and muscles would atrophy and become useless. Technically, they were useless anyway on a day-to-day basis, but maybe... just maybe, one day he might get that chance to wake from the nightmare. That's why they never needed a whip or cane to encourage him to flex and stretch his tortured limbs when they were released for a few hours. Not that he could do much else, always being securely strapped to the usual table while one or sometimes both of his Mistresses spent an hour or so ‘maintaining’ him as though he were a piece of equipment, not a living human being.

They shaved his head, face, and body, rubbed in a depleting cream that burned and stung like hell, and it was already having an effect that both he and they had noted. He’d never been what one might call hairy, apart from on his head. Even after not shaving for a week, his beard had always been negligible, and now both his head and chin merely sported a light fuzz after three weeks. His Mistress seemed to think that this would likely improve over time due to ‘The Chinese Gunk’—as they called it—which he had gathered was expensive and unlikely to have been supplied by any legitimate chemist or pharmacy.

His body burning, writhing and wriggling continually as his cramped limbs made a vain effort to return to normal, but at least in a sense, he felt human and whole for a brief period while they diligently worked on him. His fingers and toenails were clipped, his body minutely examined by latex-gloved hands, although he never knew why. What were they doing? What were they looking for? It could hardly be damage. His entire body, or most of it, was covered in the damage they’d done and frequently did to him, and would do immediately if he irritated them too much!

They even freed his penis from its confining plastic and stainless steel imprisonment and his writhing and wriggling took on a slightly more pleasurable aspect as latex fingers swabbed and cleaned and then gently teased. The downside was that the teasing stopped once he was fully erect, for they were checking functionality and had no intention of allowing their captive pet even a brief moment of pleasure. Orgasms were for owners, not for their captive pet!

Pleasure mingled with terror when those hands touched and handled his most private parts. Only they were no longer private, were they? Like the rest of him, they belonged to his owners and he had no say or control over anything, including his own helpless body. He welcomed those infrequent touches that briefly allowed him to feel like a man again, yet feared them lest they portend something unthinkable. But of course, he couldn’t help thinking about it!  

Miss Susan had probably forgotten what she’d once said during the early days of his captivity, but Pet hadn’t and never would. If he’d thought they were monstrously cruel and evil, then the girl's casual remark to her mother during one basement session had chilled his blood and brought home to him just how brutal they could be, how helpless he was, and how hopeless the crazy situation was for him.

He had still been a man then, not a ‘pet’. He had walked, or rather shuffled upright on his proper legs and feet, instead of waddling on his knees and elbows in a lowly state. Not that he had been free of restraints, for they had taken no chances with him. A broad, heavy leather belt encircled his waist, his wrists strapped to it on either side, and his ankles were similarly encased and connected by a short chain that reduced him to an awkward shuffling gait.

Miss Susan had opened the door to his sleeping cage and dragged him out by his hair; he still retained that back then as he wriggled out on his belly, desperately pushing with his legs to lessen the pain in his protesting roots, until she switched her hold to the high collar locked around his neck, hauling him to his feet and leading him across the room to where her mother awaited by the ‘flogging frame’ as they call it.

He had been secured to the frame, first by his ankles, then one hand at a time was released and likewise secured. He had fought, of course, he always did. Struggled, writhed, and wriggled, partly because he knew what would come and partly because he still retained a degree of manly pride. Fool that he had been, for what had that ever garnered him other than pain and more pain piled atop yet more pain and agony as he howled what little of that pride remained away under their punishing blows.

He'd flinched as he’d suddenly felt his balls cupped by Miss Susan’s hand and the girl voice from behind so damn casual and indifferent. “You know, it would be much more manageable if we cut these useless things off and a lot quicker to tame as well, I expect, if we neutered it!”

He remembered how he’d frozen in disbelief at the young girl's offhand words and the light pressure from her thumb upon one of his testicles as she spoke to her mother. She couldn’t be serious, and yet he knew she was! That was almost certainly his ‘Rubicon Moment’, the point of no return, the dawning realisation that he was well and truly fucked big time!

The pretty teenage girl, who, along with her mother, was torturing him daily in the most appalling manner, had just suggested castrating him. Not only that, she’d done so without the slightest flicker of emotion or concern because to her he was just an ‘it’. A thing, not a person, not a fellow human being but a fucking IT! If the nightmare he’d fallen into had an exit door, it was firmly locked, and the handle was probably missing as well, knowing his luck!

That was the only time such a terrible act had been mentioned, and yet he could not forget it. How could he? The girl's nonchalant suggestion was etched permanently into his mind, and she’d been serious, hadn’t she? So casual and yet so serious. How could she... how could... but then they’d removed all his teeth, hadn’t they? And... he stirred within his basket, sighed deeply, and looked towards Miss Susan again, shuddering. The girl was buttering bread, such an innocent and harmless act. Yet, the very sight of the sadistic girl with a knife in her hand always brought back that dreadful memory, even a simple table knife triggered it.

Today, she wore her glossy black knee boots and fashionable ripped jeans tucked into them. Pet knew those boots all too well, as did his toothless mouth. Perhaps it was physiological, meant to demean him further if possible, or maybe it was just a whim on her part. Or possibly she didn't even see him as a man, an adult male significantly older than she was. They must; surely that was a big part of the perverted pleasure they found in keeping and treating him the way they did. How many times had his head hurt trying to follow that line of reasoning, which ultimately brought no answers, no satisfaction, and certainly no escape from his living nightmare?

He would lie on her bedroom carpet, avidly lapping at the soiled footwear of an eighteen-going-on nineteen-year-old girl while she tapped away on her laptop, finishing an essay or, more often, chatting on her mobile phone with her many girlfriends. An unending stream of giggles and trivial chatter reached his ears, and then there was Chaz. Short for Charles or Charlie, no doubt, her boyfriend. Those calls from him always seemed to set the evil young girl off down the path he dreaded most.

If she answered the incoming call with a delighted squeal, a giggling ‘Hiya hunky’ or a sultry ‘What's up, big guy or lover boy’, his heart would instantly sink. Sometimes, when chatting to one of her girlfriends, it amused her to have his head buried between her legs, putting his extended tongue to work, her phone in one hand and a long, thin cane in the other, but with her beau, it was different and far more aggressive. Her fingers would snap, and she would invariably hiss, “Big boots and belt, boy, fetch” at him before resuming her giggly conversation.

Pet would sigh inwardly and obediently crawl to her large, built-in wardrobe to grasp one of her black leather thigh boots in his mouth, which was not easy when he only had gums to grip it. He would then waddle over and drop it by her bed, repeat the process with the other one, and finally, raising himself as far as he could and stretching his neck, he’d manage to nose her harness off its hook and grab it in his toothless mouth, waddling over to deposit it by the boots. He hated that last part. It was so humiliating, so demeaning, given what she would soon do with it. It was like asking the condemned man to fetch the hangman’s rope and then tie the noose destined for his own neck!

Miss Susan took after her mother, neither of them ever did anything in a hurry, unlike the two males, and that included using him so intimately once they were relaxed, comfortable and ready and that almost always meant being in their respective bedrooms. He couldn’t remember the last time her mother had made an impromptu demand on his tongue downstairs and Miss Susan. It must have been two months since that afternoon when the rest of the family had been elsewhere. The girl had been recovering from a nasty head cold and spent several days in bed. She’d come down late, wearing nothing but a frilly baby doll nightie, made herself a snack and was watching TV in the lounge. Eating with one hand while absently stroking the light fuzz on his head as he sat on his haunches next to the leather sofa.

The childish game show she watched was unlikely to have aroused the girl, but something had. Perhaps it was his shaven head; she always seemed to enjoy rubbing it when he was face down between her legs. Her fingers snapped, her legs parted, and she pointed a finger downwards. She wasn’t wearing the panties that came with such night attire; she rarely did! The girl said nothing; she didn’t need to, as he’d been well trained, and his specially adapted tongue went straight to work with the enthusiasm demanded of him.

It was different with the men, or rather man and youth, for they were more… more primitive, maybe? Pet couldn’t even count the number of non-bedroom ‘extras’ they’d demanded from him in the last few months. Perhaps the women were more bashful, but that couldn’t be it, for he’d serviced them with his mouth on numerous occasions, hadn’t he, while the others were present. But he’d never been butt fucked by either of them downstairs now he came to think about it. It seemed that the strapon harnesses and horrid attachments were reserved for bedroom use only.

Unlike the male cocks, he’d lost count of how many times he’d been hauled up and bent over the arm, of a sofa his stubby little legs kicking against empty air in vain as his rectum was violated once more. It had happened less than a week ago, one evening, when his Master returned home from work. The bastard had hardly come through the front door before dropping his pants. A brief “It’s me, love. What’s for dinner?”

Typical pet had thought, that was his habitual evening homecoming war cry. The obese bastard had probably been thinking about what his knife and fork would soon be doing battle with while driving home! Pet was on his blankets in a corner of the lounge, sucking on a ‘healthy’ dog chew his Mistress had tossed him earlier. Well, he was hardly in a position to chew it, was he? She was on a lieu day from work and had been baking all afternoon, with appetising smells wafting consistently from the kitchen while Pet had to suck on a virtually tasteless stick of gristle with the consistency of leather! Plus, he’d have to ‘fetch’ the horrid thing to her, no doubt prompted by another finger snap so that she could assess how much he’d enjoyed his ‘treat’ by how much it had diminished. Not an easy task when you had no teeth! 

Fortunately or unfortunately, the arrival home of his Master had spared him that stupid appraisal at least for now. The bastard had grunted in approval as his wife called “Steak and kidney pie, mash, peas and gravy. Fruit crumble and ice cream for afters. Nothing fancy!”. The finger snap still came though, along with ”Here boy, here!” even as his wife was answering. That summons called for an instant response, so Pet rolled over onto his bent knees and elbows and waddled across the room. He’d expected to have his head patted or something similar, and then maybe his tongue would be needed to clean the Master's shoes, but no, the randy bastard had something else in mind. Perhaps that’s what he’d been thinking about on the drive home and not filling his big belly!

As soon as that hand grabbed his collar, grunted, and then heaved him upwards, he knew what was about to happen and a moment later, he was over the arm of the sofa, little front legs on the cushion and his rear ones flapping in the air rump uppermost. He heard the sound of a zip and a second later his Master was vigorously pumping his fat cock in and out of his rectum as the bastard casually sodomised him yet again.

“What are you doing in there?” the voice floated from the kitchen along with more divine smells.

“I’m taking pet for a quick stroll up the Kyber pass! Give, give me five, love. I had a hell of a day and need something to relax the old tensions and what have you? I won’t be long, then I’ll set the table for you!” Incongruously so normal and yet so completely abnormal!

He hadn’t been long either pet reflected at least that was one good thing if being raped and sodomised by the bastard in such a foul, degrading and humiliating way, could ever be described as good! At least it had been quick unlike the owner of those thigh boots and her damn mother. That pair invariably took an age to come to the boil! Even when they used their strap-ons rather than enjoying his oral homage they took their time with none of the feral urgency the male members of the household displayed when raping his anus. Master Rogers ‘practice loving session’ excepted!

Again, Miss Susan was the worst of the two females in that respect. Her mother was bad enough, but she was predictable and never varied. Her equivelent of the standard missionary position meant over the same pink padded bedroom stool, the same harness,  the same phallus and the same routine as she slowly worked herself to a climax on the shorter end of the phallus burried within her pussy. Anally raped while his Master was in the marital bed reading his customary Tom Clancy or similar, seemingly oblivious to what his wife was doing mere feet away. But that was how the bizarre household worked day in and day out anyway, none of them finding anything remotely odd in the way he, the family pet, was treated and abused!

Miss Susan was the opposite and rarely took him the same way two times running and naturally didn’t give a fig for how comfortable he was when screwing his butt. It was strange for he wasn’t or hadn’t been the least bit gay before….before his new life began, but if given a choice, which would never happen, he almost preferred being fucked by the two males. Humiliating and degrading it might be, but at least it was a damn sight quicker. That didn’t go for oral sex, of course, that was the absolute reverse, the pits so far as he was concerned, servicing another man that way. But there was something highly erotic in using his tongue to please his attractive female masters, something almost normal about performing the intimate act despite his very abnormal situation. In contrast, swallowing sperm was something he’d never get used to!

He might prefer licking pussy to sucking cock, but he still got nothing out of it. Not with his manhood permanently locked away in its cramped prison, which was the downside, and painful downside for the cage that held his bent, confined manhood, which was also lined with tiny spikes. Pet had learned to control such ‘nasty urges’ as Miss Susan called them, but wasn’t always successful. The girl was quite a looker, a blatant prick teaser, and her mother wasn’t bad despite being in her middle years, unlike her obese slob of a husband. It was difficult sometimes for a red-blooded, sexually deprived male like him not to react when he had his nose rammed hard against such tempting feminine sweet spots while his tongue did what his cock could not!

The taste of pussy juice he could live with, unlike the salty taste of male cum, and both his Masters were copious producers; Young Master Robert, in particular, was a very heavy squirter of thick yucky male cream, his fat cock pumping out great globs of the revolting stuff. Every drop, every drip, every smear to be avidly swallowed by the pet as though greedily drinking the finest champagne, and then those wilting fleshy stalks of proud manhood licked clean, which sometimes had the unwanted effect of initiating round two. Unwanted by pet anyway!

How bitter that humiliation had been in the early days of his transformation, another of their terms. Transformation! What a mild name for what he’d been put through daily for however long it had taken. He had a rough idea, but he hated to even think about it. Mind-numbing, agonising, relentless torture—either physical, electrical, or mental via noise, the headphones, and the voice recordings impossible to shut out. The same messages repeated incessantly from the same four voices he’d come to fear and loathe. The lack of sleep, the permanent hunger, and so forth, and always more pain, more humiliation.

Then, after he had been confined to that dreadful cellar for what felt like an eternity, the unthinkable happened. His life, such as it was, took a significant turn for the worse, if that was even possible! Those not-so-subliminal messages from the headphones they clamped to his head each night continued endlessly, had hinted at one aspect of his captivity he’d yet to experience. One he had long suspected might be coming but naively refused to accept, indeed couldn’t accept or comprehend.

That ultimate humiliation came without preamble after the latest cruel beating by the daughter of the house. That was the day he found out that there were worse things than being handled, abused and beaten by a pretty teenage girl and her fetching mother. It hadn’t even been a severe beating, not by their standards anyway. A prolonged warm-up paddling, as his Mistress described it, to get him ready and although it had seemed to go on forever, he’d received far worse at their hands. Maybe, on reflection, he might have been forewarned by that?

Then again, maybe not, for there wasn’t that much of a difference when you were the one on the receiving end of a beating? They all fucking well hurt as they were intended to and the fact that some were far worse than others made little difference at the time when you were writhing, screaming and sobbing under those punishing blows. A couple of paddles wielded alternatively by a duo of sadistic females over what seemed a prolonged period was as bad as a quick, savage caning. Less destructive but equally painful and far more prolonged in the long run!

Almost as bad, if not painful, but decidedly humiliating, was the somewhat lackadaisical manner in which they had gone about it, as if he were an irrelevance. They might as well have beaten a carpet stretched over a clothes line instead of turning the scarred bottom and thighs of a mature man into bruised, quivering jelly. One, two, one, two, steady, firm swats were delivered with force but almost absently as they discussed suitable gifts for a ‘baby shower’ party, his Mistress was due to attend for a pregnant work colleague.

He was screaming and begging, squirming in his bonds on that damn bench as the wooden paddles rose and fell with slow, rhythmic precision while they discussed baby presents, almost as if he weren’t there. A month or two earlier, or however long he had been in this hellhole, he’d have been shocked at how ‘normal’ they seemed while going about their very abnormal evil task, but not now. He’d been there far too long, and strangely, it was almost as though they were the normal ones who lived perfectly ordinary, respectful lives, and he, the innocent victim, was the abnormal interloper for being on the receiving end of such treatment!

The slow, merciless beating had finally ended when the two male members of the crazy household arrived in the cellar, basement, dungeon, torture chamber, or prison. ‘Time for you to meet the boys properly and earn your keep, ’ Miss Susan had so casually laughed as they entered—the pot-bellied middle-aged balding guy accompanied by his podgy, acne-suffering young teenage son.

He’d seen them before, of course, on numerous occasions. He’d even pleaded with the man he’d soon silently call Master, visually, of course, not verbally, well, not after the first few weeks when he’d learned that attempting to communicate with his captors was both futile and invariably extra painful. Such attempts were never reciprocated, for they came to watch his agonising humiliation at the hands of his wife and daughter, not to help him. Neither father nor son had shown the slightest sympathy as mother and daughter continued to painfully strip him of what remained of his male machismo and masculine pride.

Talking might be verboten, but howling, screaming and shrieking were not, and as the days went by, he was a little surprised that they never attempted to quieten him, to gag him or anything. He had no idea where he was, other than in some basement or cellar and assumed the property must be pretty isolated; otherwise, someone must surely have heard him screaming. Pet was surprised to realise later that he was imprisoned in a standard three-bedroomed semi-detached house in a typical quiet suburban street. It was only later that he realised the cellar was quite deep and the house was at the very end of the street, next to an abandoned railway embankment, with a vacant plot opposite. The next-door neighbours were both deaf, but he suspected that wouldn’t make much difference anyway..

The two male members of the household hadn’t always just watched. However, their initial active participation in his long and painful journey from man to household pet was minimal compared to that of the female family members. They’d prodded, poked and squeezed a few times, much to his anger and humiliation, but that’s as far as they went. Looking back, he’d been incredibly naïve and stupid in not fully comprehending what that portended. Even through the ongoing agony, he ought to have been prepared, at least mentally, even if he was helpless to resist the horrendous assault to come.

He’d endured that endless slow paddling on his bottom from his female tormentors that had reduced him to an exhausted wreck as he’d writhed and screamed in agony, tethered face down on the ‘flogging table’. Towards the end of his ordeal, his Master had entered the basement and seated himself in the comfortable leather armchair opposite him. The one the women often used, one working on him as they termed it, while the other sat comfortably and usually not even watching what was happening in front of her. Tapping on their cell phones or reading a magazine, or something similar, during his extended ‘education and readjustment’ sessions.

Master Roger had accompanied him, although back then he was merely the spotty son rather than Master Roger, who’d put in an occasional appearance to stare curiously at the captive being so cruelly kept and tortured and never said a word other than to smirk and lick his lips as though anticipating some tasty treat. He’d rarely been there long for his mother or sister would invariably hustle him away with such comments as ‘it’ll be ready when it's ready and not before!’.

He'd been relieved when that slow and seemingly endless paddling ended, but unprepared for what followed. The girl had finally stopped, and he writhed and shouted as he felt her hand lightly caress first his left and then his right burning buttock before coming to the other end of that dreaded table to smile sweetly down at him. “ ‘Time for you to meet the boys properly and earn your keep”.

Earn his keep? The distinctive sound of a zip, a trouser zip being pulled down, alerted him, and his eyes widened in horror as the man he would soon mentally refer to as Master rose to his feet, simultaneously loosening his belt buckle. Pet gawped in dawning horror, and he couldn’t help himself despite all his months of so-called ‘training and transformation’. His mouth opened instinctively to utter one word: “Nooooo!”

He neither saw nor heard Miss Susan’s irritated exclamation at his lapse as she reached for a bamboo cane.

All pet had eyes for was that monstrous bobbing thing that seemed to fill the entire room. It didn’t, of course but it was big, huge, vast and unlike his poor captive cock, completely unrestrained and seemingly quivering with eagerness. He hardly reacted or even felt the first savage stripe Miss Susan's cane left across his battered buttock cheeks, nor did her reprimand for his verbal lapse register with him.

The only things that mattered were the fleshy, veined monstrous stalk filling his vision and the girl's words ringing in his brain, ‘Time to earn his keep!’.