Family Pet

Part five

Pet stared up at the bed from his lowly position on the floor. It was a low divan with a white padded headboard at one end and nothing at the foot. Modern beds rarely had a… a… he tried to think of what you’d call it, an end board, maybe. His grandmother, he recalled, had an old bed like that, one she’d inherited from her mother, and perhaps it went back further, like an old family heirloom. They were brass, heavy brass, both the top and the bottom ends, but someone had painted them black, and the paint had worn and scratched over the years, allowing the tarnished metal to shine dully through.

He wondered what had happened to that old bed and its horribly hard, lumpy mattress.  Horsehair, his mother had told him once. He hadn’t believed her at the time, but he’d since learned that they were pretty standard back when that bed had been made. Apparently, they still made them, but nowadays they were highly expensive and sold as ‘premium’ eco-friendly items. Not very friendly to the poor horse that donated its hair, though he mused.

Miss Susan shifted on her bed, and he froze for a moment, lest it be time for round two, but no. He heard the rustle of a magazine page turning, accompanied by the sound of her drinking iced water from her big thermos bottle. Pet relaxed, and who knew, she might even decide not to bother him again if she was relaxed enough; it had happened before after an energetic bout. It was still early, though!

 Miss Susan’s bed was far newer and sturdier than her younger brother’s.  Hers didn’t move back and forth as his did, often banging against the wall as the young man on top of him vigorously pounded in and out of his rectum. Maybe the legs and headboard needed tightening, with a few screws loose? He smiled wryly at that thought. Yeah, talking about loose screws, he could think of four people who’d fit that description.  A whole damn box of loose screws apiece!

Pet lay on his side, just as he had landed after being pushed off the end of the bed, once the bitch had finished with him. He hadn’t moved, for that would have disturbed the sadistic young madam, and that was the last thing he wanted. At least her bed was lower than Master Rogers's, so there was no way he could wriggle underneath to play a disgusting game of fetch for... for... He swallowed hard as the memory of that horrible incident brought on the usual urge to vomit. Besides, there was no accumulated detritus under his young Mistress’s bed. Not so much as a single discarded sock, let alone the deteriorating remains of a half-eaten Happy Meal. He grunted quietly — hell, knowing the fastidious young bitch, even dust and fluff probably dared not venture under there!

 Fastidious, yeah! His eyes swivelled upwards to where two glossy black objects caught his gaze, sticking out over the end of the bed. On the left, an inch or so of the pointed toe of a boot his tongue was only too familiar with; on the right, the steel tip of a stiletto heel, a six-inch spike that, as far as he was aware, had never trodden on anything other than its wearer's bedroom carpet… oh, and him, of course! Heel and toe, two sets that had roughly shoved him down and then off the bed once the bitch was done with him. Finished until next time, which might be mere minutes or more than an hour away, depending on her mood!

 Christ, to think there had been a time when he’d found such glossy, spike-heeled, thigh-high boots sexy! He’d always had a thing for sexy young girls in high heels. Not a fetish as such, at least not to the point of going overboard buying magazines or surfing the internet. No, nothing that crazy, but he’d certainly been an admirer. Not just young girls, either, for he’d often fantasised about Stella. Now that was an appropriate sort of name for a determined career girl.

Stella Hawkins had been his boss’s boss at the supermarket—the area manager responsible for around thirty stores of varying sizes. She’d started as an overnight shelf stacker, having left school at sixteen with no qualifications and a record of truancy and bad behaviour. She was proof of Napoleon’s maxim, ‘every soldier carries a Marshal’s baton in his knapsack’. A future CEO, people said. She was also exceptionally good-looking despite being in her forties and having had no fewer than four children, with, it was rumoured, four different partners. To her credit, she’d raised them herself, mainly as a single mum working full time, but she wasn’t the sort to let that interfere with her career. Stella was also a ‘power dresser’, always immaculate in tailored suits and the obligatory spike-heeled black boots that had become her trademark. Gossip said she was a ‘right bitch’ to work for, but she’d always been very sweet and had shown genuine interest in his department on the few occasions she’d spoken to him.

He looked up at those visible extremities of footwear above him, poking out over the edge of the bed, and sighed quietly. To think he’d once fantasised about Stella doing ‘things’ to him while wearing nothing but her boots! But then, four kids from four partners, and never once married. Yeah, that spoke volumes, didn’t it? Even so, he glanced upwards again. Right bitch or not, he doubted she came anywhere near Miss Susan when it came to being Bitchy, and since the word was in his mind, he doubted she’d ever ‘poked’ any of her partners. More the opposite, if she’d produced four healthy kids!

They had their own term for it, didn’t they, the female members of the vile household? They didn’t poke him; they ‘pegged’ him. They called it pegging. He’d never heard that term before until… until the morning after that first night he’d spent with Miss Susan. ‘The morning after’, yeah, a very descriptive term for how he’d felt when she dragged him into the kitchen that morning after a night of… of… pegging, or to be more accurate, being pegged by the young bitches’ strap-on!

He’d been dragged to and shoved into his basket by the young teen before she joined the rest of her family for breakfast, as though the previous evening and his presence were of no consequence, as indeed they probably weren’t to her. He was an irrelevance, a mere…..thing to be used and abused for her satisfaction and amusement, not just hers. Her father was next on the nightly rota, though he didn’t know that as he watched them calmly eating breakfast in the kitchen that morning. 

His mistress, her mother, had posed the question after briefly glancing at him. ‘How many times did you peg it, Sweetie?’ the cruel woman had asked almost absently while buttering a slice of toast. ‘At least I assume that’s what you were doing, the way he was squealing, like he does when daddy takes him’.

‘Three times,’ the young miss had answered, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. ‘Sorry if it was a bit noisy. It’ll quieten down once it gets used to it!’

He’d just stared at them, or rather up at them from his lowly position. So casual, so unconcerned, so… he’d been lost for words. He was nothing to them, was he, a mere ‘it’? And the fact that he’d been pegged for half the damn night by that young bitch was… so inconsequential. Pegged? He’d not been pegged; he’d been brutally fucked in the arse with a huge dildo that had protruded obscenely from the crotch of a very athletic teenage girl. Sodomised, raped, buggered… never mind pegged! Yet they might have been talking about the bloody weather over their damn toast and marmalade!

He twitched involuntarily as Miss Susan shifted on the bed, her bits of footwear vanishing from sight as she moved to a different position. God, how he loathed those fucking boots of hers and everything that came with them. Yes, and that was fitting—they were fucking boots, the thigh-length ones she always wore when she was sodomising him with a strap-on. Proper fetish porn magazine material! The kind of stuff some twisted pervert would wank himself over, he thought gloomily, quietly shifting his position. Well, they wouldn’t be so keen if they were the ones on the receiving end of that bloody monster protruding from the girl's crotch... then again, maybe he was living some degenerate’s wet dream to the full!

Night-time dreams came to an end, though didn’t they wet or dry, likewise nightmares? Come the dawn light, come the…..but in his case, his nightmare didn’t end. Dawn, day, and dusk were no different, an evil night without end! His brooding was momentarily disturbed by another rustle from above, making him tense until the sound of her drinking reassured him. He was safe from her attentions for a bit longer.

Christ, but the young bitch had pounded him as though making up for lost time, since she’d spared him this degrading humiliation in recent weeks. The girl had even ignored three calls on her mobile, which was unusual for her, especially since the last one had been most insistent and kept ringing as though someone were desperate to contact the horrible bitch! That was a first in his book, for she usually paused her assault on his tortured anal passage to answer. Jeez, how fucking bizarre was that!

He had to lie there, helpless, with a massive lump of silicone rubber or whatever up his arse while one of her wide circle of friends took precedence! She’d even broken off before now, on the very verge of an orgasm, which was bad news for him because it would take the young bitch time and further pounding of his abused internal tissue to get back to where she’d been when the damn thing rang! Her friends took precedence, and he could wait; if it was her turn, she had him for the whole night, and he wasn’t going anywhere, was he?

As if on cue, his musings were interrupted by the brief ring of her phone. “Hiya Jen, yeah, sorry I was like kinda busy when you called.” His eyebrows arched at that. Yeah, busy. Is that what she calls it? He groused to himself as the one-sided conversation above him quickly descended into the usual trivia and malicious gossip. He could remember the first time she’d broken off to answer her phone while raping his bloody backside. It had probably been bloody then, too, given how unaccustomed both he and his backside were to this terrible abuse.

He hadn’t been confined for very long in his…..his ‘pet gear’, as they called it, either. The incident that was stuck in his memory stemmed from that period he now thought of as his ‘acclimatisation time’, when he was finally allowed out of that basement torture chamber and into…..and boy, had he been surprised when he realised he was being held captive in a standard three-bedroomed suburban family house rather than some gothic castle or third-world interrogation camp. There were no massive stone walls, portcullis, moat and drawbridge preventing his escape, nor barbed wire fences and machine gun-equipped guard towers. All he had to contend with were door handles and window catches once the right opportunity arose; what could be easier than that!

Not fucking much, he thought bitterly, shuffling on the floor until he could see the pristine white door of Miss Susan’s bedroom. Like all the doors in the house, it had the original round brass handle, so bloody simple and yet so fucking complicated. Now, a pull-down handle—he might just have been able to kneel upright and pull or push down with his chin or even his nose, but there was no way he could turn that thing. It was too big to get in his mouth... now there was an ironic thought, considering some of the monster-sized things his mouth regularly had to lubricate for Miss Susan!

His limbs were permanently doubled up in his bloody ‘pet gear’, forcing him to waddle about in a lowly position on his bent knees and elbows. The only time they were released from such cruel imprisonment was during his grooming sessions, and then it was agony both ways. One as his limbs reacted to being stretched, and then later, when they were bent once more to cram him into his knee and elbow leather pouch-like garments. My God, but he’d suffered some horrors in that basement pain and more pain and terror and then physical and sexual abuse of the foulest kind imaginable or come to that, unimaginable! But the realisation…..the coming to terms of his future existence once the two bitches had crammed him into this fucking costume……

Even now, he could vividly remember the shock of being hauled off that damned torture bench and dumped on the floor. It took a moment or two for it to sink in how helpless he was — so low, so vulnerable. His two female torturers seemed to tower over him, not just physically. They were literally on a different level now, lofty goddesses of pain and humiliation. Their view of the world was normal to them, but his had been reduced to that of a damned Dachshund! Worse still, with that heavy collar around his neck, his vision was limited to his shoes, boots, and legs, and only by straining his neck could he see anything above that level.

He'd not resisted overmuch when he’d been on the bench, and they’d worked on him, fitting him into those leather pouches, his pet costume, as they called it. Why bother? They’d only beat the shit out of him if he did, and while he’d not actually enthusiastically cooperated, he’d not put up much resistance. If he’d known then what he knew now, he’d have fought tooth and bloody nail and taken the most savage of beatings rather than allow them to do to him what they had so passively!

Miss Susan snapped the leash to the collar and hauled on it with helpful encouragement. ‘Walkies, come on, come on, boy. Move, try and walk, let’s see how clever you are…’ and so forth. Meanwhile, at his other end, her mother demonstrated with a long, thin, swishy cane how vulnerable his ‘new outfit’ left him, his rear end so temptingly exposed. They were playing the old good-cop, bad-cop routine on him, and playing it very successfully, for he was attempting to waddle forward on knees and elbows even before he heard the tell-tale swish of the second stroke descending. The cane was probably the one implement he feared above all others, simple yet agonisingly painful.

That terrible day was full of firsts, and none of them were pleasant. The first time he’d worn his new leather ‘pet garments’, the first time he’d struggled up those steep stairs to emerge into the world above, or into the kitchen, to be precise. A world of complete normality, but not for him! Looking back, he couldn’t recall what horrors he’d imagined waiting for him—none had included a domestic kitchen. In fact, he paused, somewhat dumbstruck, halfway through the door as he took it all in. Colourful vinyl floor, cooker, fridge/freezer, washing machine, dishwasher, tumble dryer, sink, and worktops high above him, with a breakfast bar where his… his Master, his rapist, sat with a mug of coffee, calmly reading a newspaper. The Bastard didn’t even spare him a second glance. One quick look, then back to his paper. Unbelievable!

He’d used his big basket the first time, too. He’d been ‘encouraged’ across that immaculate vinyl floor towards an oversized wicker dog bed in the far corner. He hadn’t needed to hear her command ‘Basket, boy, basket!’ to know what was required of him, nor to feel the not-too-light toe of his Mistress’s shoe on his rump to encourage him as he struggled into it that first time. Likewise, confused, angry, humiliated, and appalled as he was, he hadn’t missed his Master’s growl.

‘I hope the bloody thing is properly house-trained. I don’t want it doing its business where it’s not supposed to!’

The fat bastard had said it so casually, as though… like he’d been a new puppy his daughter had just brought home, not a grown man reduced to such a lowly state by restrictive bindings and painful conditioning. He’d almost exclaimed aloud, but fortunately for him, that painful conditioning had kicked in; otherwise, his helpless rear would have received a lot more ‘attention’ from his Mistress’s slender cane. Besides, he was still, in a sense, completely dumbstruck by the… the sheer normality of it all. Thinking back, he’d not been able to get that word out of his head that day; everything was just so… so damn normal!

Normal, apart from his presence and the way they treated him, of course. He’d stayed quiet, half standing, half curled on his stubbly ‘new’ little kegs, staring out from that basket as Miss Susan casually bent down and released the leash. The girl patted him on the head as if he were a new puppy, hung the leash on a nearby hook, and joined her father and mother at the breakfast bar to drink freshly brewed coffee.

Christ Almighty, fresh bloody coffee. His mouth salivated at the smell for the first time, and it had been doing that at virtually every mealtime since. His brain, his senses had been... well, to put it plainly, he’d been one hundred per cent gobsmacked at that point. Whatever he’d imagined or expected once he emerged from that horrible room down below, he hadn’t expected to see this. A bog-standard kitchen with a... well, no, you’d hardly call them a ‘standard’ family, would you? Not after all he’d been through! But to see them sitting there, calmly drinking coffee, nibbling biscuits and gossiping about the Asian couple who’d recently taken over the corner shop, she was very nice, but he was a bit grumpy... un-fucking believable!

“Yeah, yeah, like I know… tell me about it. Yeah, okies… yeah… see you tomorrow then, bye”.

Pet stiffened as the call above him finished, but the seconds ticked past, and nothing happened. He heard her take another drink, then the rustle of paper as she resumed her perusal of the magazine, and slowly relaxed. His anus was temporarily spared a repeat assault, a reprieve, but for how long? That would depend on the young madam's mood. His duties for the night might, and it was an unlikely, might at that. He might be spared further if she decided she was tired or something, but that was unlikely. It depended on her mood, and he knew from long, frequently painful experience that that aspect of her personality was about as predictable as British weather. i.e. unpredictable!

It could be his arse again, for her weapon of choice was doubtless still protruding from her crotch, or so he assumed. The young bitch usually removed her harness and tossed it to the floor if she was finished or feeling less energetic and might require his tongue, where she most appreciated his spirited efforts. Hell, if that had been a ‘bad’ phone call, as some of them seemed to be, she’d probably already be taking it out on his rear end — only it wouldn’t be that phallus she’d strapped on, she’d be using, nor would he be suffering from the inside either! Master Rodger had a paddle hanging from a shelf in his bedroom, but Miss Susan had a whole row of horrors hanging nearby, and she was very adept at using them, as he well knew!

They all bloody well hurt, of course, but his male Masters were less… less expert in their use, a tad clumsier, it seemed. With them, it was more about strength than technique, and they were always in a hurry, cock eager, probably. By contrast, the two females took their time and were far more deadly in their pain. The term ‘whipping boy’ wasn’t metaphorical in his case, far from it. In this crazy household, he was definitely at the bottom of the food chain and suffered accordingly!

Being soundly beaten just because a teenage brat was pissed off over some minor, supposed juvenile misdemeanour was both painful, humiliating, and decidedly unfair. Her boyfriend being seen chatting with a hated rival, even buying the girl a coffee in the student union bar, was hardly a crime of the century. Yet he’d suffered for that perceived outrage, hadn’t he! For perhaps the most intelligent and practical member of the crazy family, it didn’t take much to set the mercurial young miss off.

Christ, but she hadn’t held back that time, had she? Hell hath no fury like and… well, it had bloody hurt! Yes, and worse, it had all been so unnecessary. He’d been in his kitchen basket the following evening while the bitch laughingly told her mother all about it. How she’d broken off and then, within the hour, made up with lover-boy. Apparently, he’d merely been canvassing views from various girls as a suitable birthday present for the sadistic Miss!

Not that it had helped or eased the pain in his butt, he bitterly recalled as her phone rang again, heralding yet another silly, giggly, girlie one-ended conversation, chiefly about a boy called Colin, who was apparently a bit ‘tasty’ and far too good for that slut Emily Watkins, whom he was currently dating, and… and so it went on above him, interspersed with frequent giggles and bitchy comments. Emily, it appeared, was something of a ‘looker’ with a nasty habit of inserting herself into established relationships, which quickly became rather less established. Cock or cunt, as she fancied being, apparently, aggressively bisexual.

Pet listened with a listless interest to the ‘she didn’t’ and ‘she’s done what’s’ about the unknown Emily until the conversation switched to the mundane subject of upcoming exams and the tedious business of revision. He switched off at that point, grumbling internally that maybe a certain nasty young Miss, not a million miles away, ought to be diligently doing that rather than reading glossy magazines and fucking his damn rear!

It had been in this room, on that same damn bed, that he’d first suffered such a humiliating indignity. He was no prude, no… no… narrow-minded hymn-singing puritan, no… well, could anybody have imagined or conceived the sort of horror he’d been subjected to that first evening? Certainly, no rational, sane-minded person could have envisaged… he shook his head. But such rationality was in short supply in this household, and as for sanity, yeah!

Of course, the first ‘turn’ to have him for the night had fallen to Miss Susan. He’d no idea how that had been decided, nor did it matter, for it wasn’t as if he had any say in the matter. That first evening in his basket, setting the scene for God knows how many similar evenings. Ignored by all, he watched the evil woman who’d tortured the hell out of him calmly cook the family's evening meal. The delicious smells made his nostrils twitch after so long on the muck they’d fed him, but any expectations he'd had were dashed moments before the family sat down for supper.

They took their evening meal in the dining room; the house, unlike many of those mass-produced three-bedroomed semis built in the thirties, still retained such a room rather than knocking down an internal wall to create greater general living space. Some had it incorporated into the kitchen, whereas others, throughout the country, had it in the lounge, the front parlour, or the sitting room, as it was known in those days. So while they all disappeared along with the dishes into the adjoining room, Miss Susan set the usual stainless-steel bowl on the floor directly by the lower entry cut-out of his basket, containing the usual revolting stone-cold slop to which he’d become unenthusiastically accustomed.

True, there were lumps of meat in it, but he’d had suspicions about them for a while. Those suspicions were confirmed the very next morning when he watched his Mistress unconcernedly open a tin of dog food and add some of the contents to whatever else she was stirring in a mixing bowl for him. That, combined with what had happened to him the night before in Miss Susan’s bedroom, made him vomit all over the kitchen floor, an act his Mistress hadn’t appreciated. He paid a severe penalty on the spot for his transgression, and again later when she returned from work.

He glanced up; the phone call was still in full swing, and so were the frequent giggles, as was the descent into discreet, hushed, melodramatic whispers, which was a bit silly, given that the only ears around were his and that he was in no position to tell tales. No, like the proverbial pirate ‘dead man’, he wasn’t likely to be gossiping to anyone any time soon! Besides, who the hell would be interested in that trivial teen clap-trap? he mused, returning his gaze to the bedroom carpet.

That same carpet he’d waddled across on his new ‘stumpy’, doubled-up legs the evening he’d accommodated the young Miss for her first turn. His first nightly turn, come to that. The first of many, far too fucking many, and there was no end in sight, was there? He was doomed, it seemed, to spend his adult life on doubled-up limbs, serving those who towered so far above him, not just in the physical sense. The world they lived in was one of normality, whereas his hellish one was.……. He shook his head and shivered. Madness, he suspected, was hovering just around the corner, and in a sense, he’d welcome that with open arms, not that he had any he could use. He’d read somewhere that such people were probably the happiest in the world, if you could believe it. He shook himself. Yeah, but even if you were totally without reason and intelligent thought, that bloody cane and paddle would still hurt, wouldn’t they!

Another shriek of laughter, followed by an extended bout of giggles from above, and he switched back to that first evening. He’d had a hell of a time negotiating the staircase, like a puppy or a kitten struggling upwards for the very first time. He was back on the leash, dragged from his basket by the terrible daughter who’d so mercilessly tortured him daily for what seemed like an eternity of pain and terror. Nor did he feel any better off, except that he was thankfully free of that horrible basement, cellar, dungeon, whatever! His mind was still reeling from the astonishing discovery that he’d been held captive in, or rather below, what appeared to be a standard family home, not much different from the one he’d grown up in.

Miss Susan was several steps ahead of him, not particularly tall, none of the family was, but, given his lowly position, a veritable giantess. The leash in her hand and the collar around his neck heightened that imposing authority and, likewise, his terror. His buttock cheeks still burned from that last beating she’d given him. At least she was being patient, allowing him time to struggle upward on his ‘new’ stumpy little limbs. A rare event in her case, for he’d soon learned that patience wasn’t one of her strong points. Her younger brother was frequently on the receiving end of an angry or sarcastic outburst, but that was all. He, on the other hand, invariably found such outbursts extremely painful!

The bitch had even encouraged him with her ‘Good boy, good pet, another step, go on, you can do it’ and similar encouragements. Christ, how bloody humiliating. He, a fully grown man, was at the end of a leash held by a slender teenage girl. But what else could he have done? The leather pouch-like garments they’d crammed his bent limbs into were only thin, pliable leather, yet he was rendered helpless, gripped with a vice-like hold—an old cliché, to be sure, but appropriate. Back then, once the initial shock of wearing the damn things had worn off, he’d been confident he’d somehow manage to wriggle out of it, tear it, or do something. Simple. All he needed was to free one hand.

He paused and glanced fearfully upwards, hearing an ominous creak as the girl moved again, but she was still on her bloody phone. Jesus, what must her bill be like, all for nothing… sheer trivial crap! He’d always been a yes, no, okay and goodbye man on his phone. Three minutes would have been a long time for him, not… He glanced upwards as a shrill exclamation sounded, followed by yet more silly giggles. Trivia, bloody inconsequential trivia… but long may it reign for a while, because as long as it did, he was safe!

Get one hand free, yeah! That had been back then, and this was now, and he’d yet to manage that ‘simple’ operation. He’d yet to work out a way to do it, and if one existed, which he doubted, it was certainly eluding him. Hands and brains were the two things that had carried primates to the top of the evolutionary mountain and humans to the very peak. However, take away hands as they’d taken his, and despite his brain, his ability to think and reason, he was reduced to…….

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a string of very unladylike curses from above as his young Mistress’s phone call was unexpectedly terminated. An impromptu, irritated tirade against her providers’ ‘bad connections and signal strength’. He prayed to whatever God might be listening that the young madam wasn’t too irritated. Pet didn’t want to be beaten, especially not for her missing out on some of that inane crap her phone spouted! Hell, what a life. He really was at the arse end of the evolutionary scale now, wasn’t he? Terrified of a girl like her… not that there were likely to be many like her in the world!

He waited, tense and breathless. Then the bed creaked slightly again, followed by the welcome sound of a magazine page turning. Thankfully, the young bitch’s attention was still elsewhere, and he could relax… but for how long? But then, did time matter? Sooner or later, he sensed she’d want to use him again; it was going to be one of those evenings, the long sort he so hated. Mind you, long or short, he loathed them all, but what choice did he have? Why was he even getting himself all worked up about it when there was nothing he could do about it, about anything! He might as well wish that the sun wouldn’t come up in the morning as wish they wouldn’t abuse him!

At least his tongue had been spared the slavering over her boots and shoes for once, making himself useful, as she sometimes put it. Indeed, he was a trifle surprised to be allowed the luxury of just lying on the floor here without being assigned some demeaning, trivial, and frequently pointless task. Once, he’d been given the job of retrieving her worn panties, socks, tights, etc., from the linen bin with his mouth, laying them in a neat row, and then putting them all back, one by one, until she told him to stop!

Tonight had been somewhat akin to that very first time he’d been brought to this bedroom by what had turned out to be a very hot young bitch in heat. There had been no preamble that night; he’d not had to fetch those thigh-length, glossy fetish boots and her strapon harness with his mouth. No, that demeaning practice was a later addition to his humiliating situation, and doubtlessly his young Mistress would find it amusing to add other such tasks to keep him occupied while she relaxed at her ease.

Not that there had been much relaxing the first time. Her desire was such that by the time he’d managed to negotiate the topmost stair, he’d been virtually dragged the short distance to her bedroom door and thrust into the room by a savage push from her foot and a tug on his neck collar from the leash in her hand. He’d still been endeavouring to come to terms with this new situation, the latest piece of craziness in this bizarre jigsaw of insanity he was trapped in, and why? What had he done to deserve this insanity?

Fleeting impressions, both visual and mental, as a hand grabbed the collar around his neck and, with surprising strength, dragged him over to a single bed and then up and onto a soft pink-and-white flower-pattern duvet, with a very unfeminine grunt from the owner of that bed immediately followed by a hard, painful smack on his left buttock cheek.

‘Over, roll over, now!’ The painful smack had been repeated even harder. ‘Over, roll over, I said. I want you on your back when I take you, so roll over, NOW!’

There had been several more hard smacks to his bottom. Then, while his numb brain was still vainly trying to make sense of it all, she’d pushed, pulled and hauled him until he was lying on his back, staring at the textured ceiling with all his ‘new’ stubbly little limbs flapping helplessly, feeling like a tortoise flipped on its back. He’d automatically tried to roll to one side but had been thwarted by an irritated exclamation, immediately followed by a volley of slaps to his face, left, right, left, right, left, right, until stars replaced the textured swirls overhead and the command ‘Stay!’ registered only vaguely.

What followed felt almost like a dream sequence from a movie, yet it had happened. At the time, it felt both remote and insanely up close and personal. In one sense, he should have expected it, yet he hadn’t, which, when he looked back, seemed a little naive. Then again, how could any rational person make sense of what was happening to him? He’d barely had time to adapt to those horrible contortions of his limbs when he found himself being brutally raped by an attractive teenage girl.

Surreal. That was a word that had virtually embedded itself in his mind in those early days! Unreal, bizarre, weird, dreamlike, and similar, although it was no dream because there was no waking from it! He’d watched, almost as if through a mist of near-tangible incredibility, as Miss Susan divested herself completely of all clothing, taking the time to fold each item neatly as she did so. An odd mixture of seeming haste and methodical neatness that somehow registered in his well-boggled mind. Likewise, he found nothing remotely erotic about the sight of a pretty young girl in her late teens so nonchalantly stripping off and baring her young body so unashamedly.

The nubile young miss calmly stepped out of a pair of frilly white panties, folded them in half, and placed them atop the pile of clothing. She crossed to her wardrobe without so much as a glance in his direction as he lay on his back, his truncated limbs waggling sporadically, his ears still ringing from those savage bitch slaps to his face, which had effectively killed any lustful thoughts he might have held. He watched as she took things from her wardrobe, shook them, and then moved back to the bed, bending over to take another object from the bedside cabinet. He saw what it was she had in her hand and gasped aloud.

‘Quiet boy!’ the young miss snapped, still not deigning to look in his direction. ‘You can yelp all you like in a minute.’ Then she turned and gave him an evil smile. ‘You made enough noise when daddy and little brother were enjoying you, so I expect no less. Payback time now for all those noisy, tedious hours I had to put in downstairs, breaking you in!’

Tedious! Hell, the evil little bitch and her mother had obviously enjoyed themselves at his expense for all those weeks, months, whatever. The terrible duo certainly found torturing him the hell out of thoroughly entertaining! The more he’d screamed and begged, the more they seemed to relish what they were doing to him, and as for noise… well, maybe if they hadn’t been doing such horrible things to him, he wouldn’t have been making all that noise! Then he gasped again!

That thing in her hand, which she’d taken from the drawer, was a large black imitation phallus, a replica of a cock, a large cock with a bulbous head. She’d just raised the other end to her lips and lapped at it a few times with her pink tongue. It was oddly shaped, and he’d realised why as she lowered it to her crotch and fiddled for a moment with the harness she’d strapped about her waist and hips. “Oooh,” she exclaimed, wriggling her hips and shifting the straps of her harness from side to side. “That hit the spot a girl appreciates most!”

He gazed at the monstrous black thing protruding from the young girl’s crotch, disbelief mounting. She couldn’t be serious. Then what she’d said about daddy and little brother hit home. Christ, he’d been raped several times by those bastards, and now… now she said it was her turn! He shook his head, then, without thinking, did the one thing he’d been strictly whip-trained not to do. He couldn’t help it. The sight of that… that monstrous thing bobbing about proved too much, and the words came tumbling out in an involuntary tirade.

“No, no, you can’t, no, please, no, you…..” was as far as he’d got before the young madam fell upon him, snarling with rage and wielding a crook-handled cane she’d snatched from some convenient location. He was helpless as she grabbed the pouch that restrained his bent right leg and heaved him backwards, exposing his backside to that terrible cane.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid animal! You don’t talk, not ever, haven’t you learned that yet? Do you want me to take you back downstairs and show you what we do to stupid pets that break the basic rules? I assured Daddy you were fully house-trained, and already you let me down! If I hear one more word out of you, it will be back to the basement punishment bench, and I’ll have my fun that way. Then mummy will flay the skin off your backside, stupid. You know what she’s like?”

Twelve times that whistling cane sliced into his bottom, and twelve times he howled in agony. However, he managed to avoid doing so in any comprehensible words, for he knew only too well what Mummy was like, not that there was much difference in his mind between mother and daughter! The sadistic girl didn’t hold back; they rarely did, and he certainly didn’t want to spend any more time on that bench down in the basement with either of the sadistic bastards!

In a sense, the fact that she was young, attractive and female had made it worse, not better, far more humiliating and degrading. He was well used to it now, not exactly immune to the horror or the pain of it. Still, he’d been anally raped so often that it had become… indeed was a basic part of his daily existence, an abnormal normal occurrence, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it either. Cocks, whether real or imitation, were a part of his life!

It had been bad enough the first time, down in the horrible cellar torture chamber, bent helplessly over the end of that bench he’d spent so much time writhing and screaming in agony upon. Then this new horror had been introduced, forcibly, in the most painful and humiliating way. His rectal passage was penetrated by one of Miss Susan’s fingers as he experienced ‘pussy lube’ for the first time, as she prepared him for the ‘boys’!

He knew she’d done that; how could he not? But at the time, it hadn’t even registered that she was doing it, or that he’d been only dimly aware of that humiliating assault, because his eyes remained fixed on that monstrous bobbing cock in front of his face. His master's huge monster penis, at least it had seemed ten times bigger than it actually was, as its chuckling owner twisted back and forth, setting the horrible thing wobbling and bobbing up and down, as though independent of the paunchy bulk behind and above it!

The low bed creaked again, making him freeze, then slowly relax as nothing followed. There was no summons, no demand from on high, so he was still off duty, as it were, until the young miss required his services, or rather access to his pet pussy, as they called it! At least it didn’t hurt, other than the humiliation, and even that had lessened, as had that feeling of outrage and despair, as his very self-esteem and masculinity were ripped from him in such a brutal fashion when ‘Daddy’ first ‘bitched’ him. Bitched! Another of their stupid, hateful terms. He’d been sodomised, fucking male raped, and not just once. 

Three times he’d suffered that hideous indignity, twice at his Master’s hands and in between by the bastard's spotty-faced offspring, all the while under the gleeful gaze of his sadistic teenage sister, Miss Susan. Back then, it had hurt, hurt like bloody hell! He’d endured inquisition-like torments on his exterior from whip and cane, and now they were trying to tear his insides apart. At least that’s what it had felt like at the time. Even now, it sometimes felt like that, especially when Miss Susan decided to ‘go big’, as it were. The two ‘boys’ he’d grown accustomed to and could accommodate now without too much discomfort, bar the humiliation that never seemed to lessen.

Anal rape had become a regular part of his life after he had been ‘introduced to the boys’. They became regular visitors to his basement torture chamber after that, and then there were his female tormentors and their ‘toys’, as they called them, those that penetrated, plugged and hurt him from the inside rather than those that stung and seared his flesh from the outside. Yet another humiliation and hammer blow to his manly pride and very masculinity as he writhed and screamed while young Miss Susan reamed his protesting anal passage with one of their ‘toys’. Not that he retained overmuch manliness, not after the male members of the family had paid several more visits to his dungeon-prison and not just to watch his suffering!

The young girl was his chief tormentor or torturess in that respect. Her mother frequently plugged him, but did so more for practical purposes, he thought, than from any perverted sense of pleasure she might get out of doing so. He’d become very ‘loose’, as the evil woman put it, and she didn’t want him inadvertently ‘doing his business’ outside his litter tray! Jesus fucking Christ and all his bloody angels and what have you! He was a man, a fellow human being with feelings, emotions and intelligence, was he not, and yet… doing his business outside his litter tray! What the hell had he become?

Plus, he’d been introduced to a new piece of furniture. He didn’t fear it quite so much as the whipping frame and torture bench, which he loathed and detested to a degree words failed to convey. At least, not in the vocabulary he had! They called it his ‘throne’, a fairly innocuous, straight-backed wooden kitchen or dining chair. Quite ordinary, save for the straps that secured his ankles and those that secured his wrists to either side of the seat, adjusted to allow him some wriggle room as he sat so enthroned.

He did wriggle on his throne as well, wriggled a lot, and it wasn’t because his butt bones and whip-bruised bottom protested at the long hours he spent sitting upon that hard, unyielding wooden seat. No, that discomfort he could have tolerated, lived with, adapted to and so on. Unfortunately for him, his ‘throne’ had also been adapted, and that seat could accommodate not only his bottom but a variety of penetrating toys to impale him, and that’s why he writhed upon it!

Jeez, that fucking dildo chair! How many hours had he spent skewered and strapped to that horrible piece of furniture, being ‘acclimatised’, as they crudely put it? Yeah, he’d been pretty well acclimatised, hadn’t he, especially when they increased the size of the bloody horrible things they impaled him upon. Bigger, longer, thicker, and so on… Yeah, he’d become acclimatised, or ready to become a ‘useful pet’, another of their stupid and oft-repeated sayings. Between the ‘chair’ and those visits from the ‘boys’, he’d been under no illusions about what they meant by ‘being useful’.

Oddly, neither of his female mistresses had abused him that way when he’d been down below, had they? They’d used their horrid collection of sex toys often enough, but never with the… the more intimate, if it could be so described, strap-on harness. Not until that first night, when he’d been dragged up the stairs and into this room by Miss Susan. Maybe it was a female thing, and they’d preferred to save themselves that ‘pleasure’ for later, when they could indulge themselves within the softer confines of their respective bedrooms. Not that there was ever much softness about the way they treated and handled him!

Given a choice, he’d opt for one of Master Rogers’ ‘practice’ loving sessions, when he was used as a substitute for that girl down the road the lad apparently fancied. Vile, degrading and humiliating as they might be, they were soon over and infinitely preferable to one of Miss Susan's vigorous, penetrating sessions that seemed to last forever, and… he paused as her cell phone ringtone sounded again.

“Oh, hiya, Jane… really… look, I’ll call you back, okay. Give me, say, about an hour or so. I’ve got something urgent to take care of right now. Hah,” she giggled. “No, not that! Don’t be dirty, and he’s not here, no, and mind your own business, Sweetie.  Loverboy is not poking me! I just told you he’s not here, and if you're that curious, I was quietly reading a magazine. Okay, yeah… yeah, well, I’ll call you back. Have you told Kelly and Sammy yet? No, well, call them, and then you can fill me in on what they say when I call. Yeah, catch you later then, Hun”.

Pet stiffened as a pair of black leather thigh-high boots swung around over his head, and then she was standing over him, not bothering to spare him so much as a glance. The girl crossed to her dressing table, deposited her cell phone and magazine on its glass-topped surface, and then deigned to look contemptuously down at him, a cruel smile tugging at her pretty face. Pet froze. He knew that look, that smile, and what it portended without the bitch needing to drop a hand and waggle that huge obscenity protruding from her crotch.

“Bathroom break first, boy and then time for a little more fun, eh?” she giggled and strode imperiously on those six-inch spike heels towards the bedroom door, where she paused and looked back, dropping one eyelid in an amused wink. “Didn’t tell Jane a lie, did I, boy? I’m not the one who’s going to be on the receiving end of a poking, am I?”

Pet stared after her in dismay as the door closed, cutting off her cruel laughter. Call back in about an hour or so, the young miss had told her friend. He shuddered. Yes, he knew that look the young bitch had given only too well. He had a feeling it was going to be a long and very unpleasant hour for him!

What had he ever done to deserve this insanity? He’d never been the least bit religious, but if there were a God or even Gods, then he’d been well and truly abandoned by them! Worse, Hell did exist, and he hadn’t needed to die to get there!