Family Pet

Part 6

He stared at the bedroom door, subconsciously willing it to stay closed, and, if his mind had been capable of such an action, he would have welded it shut by the power of thought and wishful thinking alone. Unfortunately, he wasn’t some comic-book superhero and didn’t have that power, nor was painted wood upon painted wood the best material to try welding! A hammer and a handful of nails would be far more practical, though he had none. Come to that, he didn’t have any hands either, at least not ones he could have used for such a task, let alone superpowers!

He sighed, wriggling and shuffling into a more comfortable position. Miss Susan tended to take her time in the bathroom, though it made no difference to him. The inevitable was going to happen just as it always did, and what difference would a few minutes make! The quicker the young bitch started, the sooner it would be over. Besides, it wasn't as if it was anything new! Hell, if he had a pound for every time he’d been fuc… but no, what was the point of thinking that way!

Back then, though, that first time had been a new, if unwelcome, experience, hadn’t it, and in this same room, upon the bed he was lying on, awaiting the return of his young Mistress from her ablutions. Déjà vu and fucking vu once more, he thought bitterly, with that same harness around the bitch’s slim waist and thighs. The only thing missing from the replay was the bloody thing she’d used on him that first time. Presumably, that had been relegated to the back of her toy drawer in favour of its numerous bigger brothers now!

‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, ’ Shakespeare's Henry V popped into his mind, which had been one of his set plays at school for his English literature exam years ago. Christ, that seemed, indeed, was a lifetime ago. A life he no longer had, and that had been cruelly denied him. An innocent man condemned to a life sentence to be served in the foulest way imaginable… or maybe unimaginable! Why had that quote suddenly come to mind? What had prompted… oh, yeah. Funny how your deep subconscious works. Once more unto the breach, and it was his opening that would soon be breached once more, nor would it be done by a dear friend… far from it! Yeah, if he’d had a pound for every time one of the bastards had raped his anus, well…. what a stupid saying! A pound singular or a million, even a billion, he was hardly in a position to make use of such wealth, was he!

Miss Susan normally took her time in the bathroom, being a very neat, composed, organised, and unhurried young woman. She took after her mother, who was much the same in that respect. Unlike the male members of the family, who went into near-panic mode most mornings when they couldn’t find things… briefcase, schoolbooks, car keys, and so forth. That trait was reflected in how they used him. The ladies invariably took their time when raping his damn butt, whereas with the guys it was almost always…wham, bang and no thank you, ma'am!

He glanced again at the door and wondered why she’d bothered to close it. The rest of the family were downstairs watching TV as usual and besides it wasn’t as if they’d give a damn about what she’d be doing to him anyway should they happen to walk past! Hell, him being publicly butt fucked wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence in this crazy household. How many times had he been hauled over the arm of that big chair in the lounge by his Master or even occasionally by Master Roger in full view of all and sundry!

Hell, talk about bizarre and … and … he floundered for want of a suitable word or expression! Was there even one, he wondered? Hauled over the arm of an armchair and abused, sodomised while three other members of the damn family carried on watching television. A massive penis ramming in and out of his anus, and the bastard doing it was probably also watching the TV even as he relieved himself of that male stiffness via his rear. How fucking casual and indifferent could you get!

Neither of them would take the slightest notice, either as Daddy or his foul son, so used to him. ‘Hush’ or ‘keep it down, we can’t hear’ might be the only comment one of them would make, and he’d quickly learned, the hard and painful way, not to make a noise and disturb their televisual concentration. Like those Victorian brides who were advised by their mothers on how to survive their wedding night. ‘Grip the bedpost tightly and think of England. Victorian sex education at its best!’ He clenched his teeth and tried not to think of anything in the silence, knowing his ordeal would soon be over. Hopefully!

Never by one of his female ‘owners’, though. His mouth, his tongue between their thighs, while relaxing in a chair or watching TV, yes. His tongue busily at work while some silly soap opera or reality show went on behind him. They were not averse to using him publicly that way, but he’d never been used anally in public… well, not downstairs, anyway. He’d been taken often enough in the master bedroom, and in his case, it was the bedroom of his Masters. Bum-fucked by his Mistress while his overweight Master lay in bed reading his Tom Clancy or whatever. That hardly counted as being fucked in public since the bastard rarely bothered to look up. His wife might have been at her dressing table brushing her hair for all the interest that fat slob took!

It probably wasn’t even a case of familiarity breeding contempt, but more a casual, everyday familiarity in this house of evil, crazies! Oh, pets being bum-fucked again, so what? Pass the butter dish, would you please, sweetie! Nor was he the first to suffer such abuse at their collective hands. He’d gathered. They had no name for him other than Pet or boy, the latter invariably uttered in a demeaning and derogatory fashion. The well-whipped cur was being brought to heel, and yes, he’d certainly been well whipped by Miss Susan and her mother. He wasn’t the sort cut out to be a hero; he’d have talked, and sooner rather than later, had he been one of those wartime unfortunates who’d fallen into the hands of Hitler’s Gestapo or any of that ilk. He had no illusions about that, and what the two females had done went way beyond anything those evil fuckers would have done.

Worse, he’d not been afforded the luxury of ‘talking’ to end the horrible torment. What the hell could he have told them anyway? Besides, talking was a major no-no! No, in his case, it had just gone on and on until he was… well, what he was now, what they intended him to be. A broken, grovelling, terrified… human pet! And what about his predecessor, the one he’d heard them mention occasionally yet knew nothing about? They called her ‘Fuckslut’; at least he’d been spared that indignity, such as it was, but he’d have willingly swapped his present name to be spared the reality of what that name entailed!

He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure, but he’d gained the impression from the few times he’d heard the name mentioned that Fuckslut had been female rather than male. That basement cage, in which he’d spent a goodly portion of his life, had housed at least one other occupant, he suspected. One who’d doubtless spent time on that hated bench and other torture furniture in his dungeon prison room. What had happened to her or even him… it was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.

Had they done what he’d contemplated so many times? They were pretty damn careful around him and with what they left lying about, but even so, serious self-harm wasn’t beyond him if he set his mind to it. Yes, he was severely handicapped by the straps and pouches that kept him in such a lowly position, likewise denying the use of his hands and fingers. Still, there must be a way he could… could end it all should he choose to go down that route, and by God, he had enough reason to, hadn’t he?

He shied away from such thoughts, though his position was desperate and his longing to be free of this evil family was equally strong. Maybe he was a coward, maybe not. It just seemed… so final, so bloody permanent, didn’t it? For all he knew, they might take him out into the countryside in the dead of night next week, free him from his bonds, kick him from the vehicle and drive off home. Finito, finished, perhaps bored with him. Time to find a new victim to amuse themselves with. You never knew, did you?

Yeah, they might, and then again, they might not. Indeed, the odds against that happening were stacked so high as to be out of sight and in the fucking clouds! Perhaps they would think that people in authority wouldn’t believe his crazy tale of kidnapping, capture, imprisonment, torture and sexual abuse. Someone might, though, once they checked up, and he must have been reported absent or missing by his employers and landlord, if nobody else. There must be a missing person file on him somewhere, and then they’d take him a tad more seriously.

But that was a false hope. He could talk now, couldn’t he? He could spill the beans big time, and no one would need to torture him. He knew names, faces, and exactly where he was. Number 139, Rosemary Avenue. He’d seen that enough times on envelopes, hadn’t he? He knew the names of their friends from phone calls, where both seniors worked, and where the juniors were schooled. He sometimes dreamed of leading authority in all its size-twelve police-booted glory into this house and down to that god-awful cellar dungeon and maybe rescuing the unfortunate captive within who’d replaced him!

Yeah, like fucking hell. Fat chance! He sighed. Christ, the young bitch was taking her damn time, wasn’t she? Constipated again? He shuddered. No, not that! On a scale of one to ten, of all the vile things he had to do, that one came… he retched at the thought. Jesus fucking Christ and all his bloody angels, that had to be when he reached rock bottom, no pun intended. Bottom fun, they called it!

He shifted position again, this time more out of a growing sense of foreboding and unease than discomfort. Bottom fun, and it even had an official name, would you believe! Just like pegging, only this foul practice was called rimming or analingus. He’d learned that one evening while curled up on his blankets in the usual corner of the lounge. Master Rodger had asked his mother about it, and she’d given the lad a very comprehensive and clinical answer, as befitted a senior dental nurse. Unfortunately, it was also the lad's turn to have him for the night, and the damn kid hadn’t been slow to experiment with all that newfound knowledge his mother had imparted.

His mother had warned the boy that it was generally regarded as a somewhat unhealthy practice, a high-risk area for bacterial infection and similar issues. On the other hand, the anus contained a high concentration of nerve endings that could generate a great deal of pleasure for the recipient. That was news to Pet, who’d listened to the discussion with growing horror. Either his anus lacked sensory nerve endings, or they didn’t respond to the penetrating anal stimulation he was frequently subjected to, and none of it ever generated pleasure, great or small, for him!

Naturally, that horrible practice had immediately snowballed, and his nose was rubbing against stinky butt holes for the next fortnight while his tongue did even worse things. Apparently, the unhealthy part was primarily his, as the one performing the hideous task, but that wasn’t likely to have worried any of the recipients he serviced, would it? Not considering everything else they’d done and continued to do to him, whether he deserved it or not.

He’d hoped it would prove to be a one-off once Master Roger had satisfied his warped curiosity, but no, it was Miss bloody Susan taking her turn the following night because her brother had gleefully talked about it the following morning at the breakfast table. Over breakfast, for Christ’s sake! Such a fitting subject! How I had a captive man’s tongue up my bum hole last night. Hardly the sort of talk you’d expect from normal people over their early-morning coffee and cornflakes or whatever, but then number 139 Rosemary Avenue was light-years from containing a normal household! Yet that was the paradox, the absurdity, the… fucking thing he could barely get his head around even now. Remove him and his impossible situation from the equation, and they were just that, a normal, everyday, ordinary family, weren't they!

He shuffled again, thinking back a couple of months. That period of his captivity had been… well, maybe not as bad as those endless early months down in the basement, when he’d suffered agonies every single day at the hands of the females of the house. That had been… he shuddered and didn’t even want to think about it. He lived in terror of being dragged back down there, not just caged for the day while they went about their ‘normal’ business, but subjected once more to that merciless ‘breaking it in’ or ‘getting it ready to be useful’ or whatever, and that other one… ‘Acclimatising it’. What a stupid fucking term! Did they honestly believe he could ever adapt or fully adjust to this damn life?

Then again, why not? What choice did he have? He was merely an ‘it’ to them, wasn’t he? A species all of its own, a unique specimen to which the normal rules of civilised society evidently didn’t apply. That’s what he found most galling, so… so unbelievable. The way they blatantly ignored his humanity, treating him thus, even though he was no different from them, a fellow member of the human race… not an It! Hell, even the animals locked up in the cramped confines of those primitive early Victorian zoos had lived better lives than he. Likewise, those who’d actually done something to merit being locked up in those red-brick Victorian prisons, far too many of which still existed today, according to the reforming ‘do-gooder’ brigade!

Old, crowded, under-staffed and under-facilitated, he’d read. Cells that had originally housed one inmate a hundred years ago now frequently housed two and even three, locked up twenty hours a day, with a bucket to meet their ablutionary needs. Slopping out, they called it every morning. Did they still do that, or had they finally upgraded those old cells? Probably not all of them. Whereas in his cage? He had his very own equivalent in the shape of a big litter tray for his ‘requirements’ and that dirt patch in the rear garden for him to do ‘his business’.

He shook his head to clear his wandering thoughts. What was taking the girl so long? He rolled onto his other side and, for lack of anything better to do, stared at the white plastic double wall socket. Both switches were on, and two items were plugged in: one, presumably, the girl's bedside lamp; the other, her cell phone charger. Low down, just above the skirting board, now that was on his level! 240 volts. He’d heard it could kill you, especially if you messed about with wet hands or fingers.

He didn’t have fingers, though, did he, not ones he could use anyway. They were secured in the unyielding pouches that held his arms bent double, and similar pouches held his legs bent, reducing him to waddling about on elbows and knees like some grotesquely deformed animal. Maybe he could… He glanced around, shuffled a little, and completed his visual sweep of the room. Miss Susan was not Master Rodger, so apart from the stuff, the dainty feminine underwear she deliberately left or threw on the floor for him to pick up with his mouth, it was clear.

Maybe if he could pick up something with his mouth, something made of metal, he could lick it, salivate on it rather than one of Miss Susan's damn shoes, as he so often did in this room. Hold it between his teeth and ram it into the live socket. It didn’t have to be in this room, though, did it? Even if the socket was switched off, he could easily nudge it on with his nose. Yeah… but which was the live one? The larger top one was earth, but which of the two lower ones? He frowned, trying to bring up a picture in his mind from the last time he’d changed an electric plug on an appliance. The one on the standard lap he’d inherited from his mother. It kept blowing the 13-amp fuse in the plug, and that was too big a fuse for a lamp anyway.

The plug had been cracked, and the cord frayed, so he’d cut the old braided cord short and bought a new three-pin plug and a packet of 3-amp fuses suitable for table lamps and similar low-power household appliances. On the right-hand side, with the back off, you would see the live wire connected to the fuse and pin there. Thus, the live socket would be the one on the left, wouldn’t it? He stared at the wall socket again, thoughtfully, and then… Shit! He remembered something else. You couldn’t shove anything into a UK-style socket, could you, because of the internal safety shutters? The earth pin was thicker and longer than the live and neutral pins because, as you pushed it in, it raised internal shutters that prevented, say, a child from ramming something into the socket and getting electrocuted! He’d read somewhere that, taking population size into account, the USA had about five times the rate of electrical fatalities and injuries as the UK, despite using a lower domestic voltage.

Fucking trivia! Jesus, the amount of incidental crap your brain stores! He glared at the wall socket, swearing to himself, though part of his brain told him it was a bit silly. It was, after all, only a speculative idea, but still… he felt cheated. He’d have to somehow have two things, two… two metal probes or whatever, and insert them into the sockets simultaneously to shock himself. That wasn’t going to be easy. No… no, wait. Say he could pick up one thing, whatever, with his mouth, somehow manoeuvre it into the earth socket, and leave it there, then pick up another one for the live and… yes, that could work… but what could he use? A knife, a spoon, no, far too big. A knitting needle, a small one, yeah, but none of them were knitters. A small screwdriver, two small screwdrivers, but they had rubber or plastic handles, or… he heard the toilet flush and promptly returned to reality. Would he have the courage to do that anyway? Had he reached the point of abandoning all hope? That final and ultimate tipping point!

The door opened as Miss Susan entered and quietly closed her bedroom door with the handle, whereas her brother would have pushed or, more likely, slammed his shut. Silence was never golden as far as he was concerned, and even turning a door handle was probably too much effort for the lazy young slob! The girl always walked quietly and gracefully, unlike her brother, who ‘clumped’ about as if wearing loose-fitting wooden clogs on his big feet! He always knew when Master Roger was coming down the stairs for breakfast each morning; he could hear and feel the vibrations as he lay semi-curled in his basket.

The girl had that additional bulbous-headed appendage in her hand, along with its dangling attendant array of leather straps. He instinctively cowered back, as he always did, coward that he was. Would he really … what was that expression … top himself? Did he have the guts to do that when the mere sight of a pretty teenage girl wearing not a stitch of clothing other than those long thigh boots terrified the hell out of him? He felt an overpowering desire to look at that simple electric wall socket again, for somehow it was a damn sight more comforting than that horrible thing in her hand!

“Not just yet, boy!” The tone was cold, impersonal, and matter-of-fact. Not quite indifferent, but not far off, as she seemed to tower imperiously above him, shaking out the harness and strapping it about her waist and groin again. The girl wasn’t that tall, shorter than him by a good head under normal circumstances. But of course, these were not normal circumstances, far from it, as he shrank back from the sight of that simple object that would soon violate him and make a mockery of his masculinity! Besides, she was wearing those killer six-inch heels, which raised her to near goddess status compared to his lowly position.

“Oooh, that always feels good.” The bitch slipped the smaller rear end of the foul thing into her vagina with a sensual shudder of pleasure. “Anticipation, boy, anticipation. I’ll finish the chapter in my book, and then we can have a bit more fun.” She suddenly giggled and stretched a hand to waggle that obscene protrusion at him. “Sammy was right when she sent me the Amazon link. Slow start, but it’s really getting hot now, and I’m beginning to ooze!”

He cringed as she deliberately toe-poked his caged masculinity with one gleaming, pointed leather foot, giggled again, and climbed back onto her bed. “Fucky, fucky time soon, so don’t go anywhere, pet. I’m going to be one hell of a randy girl in a little while!”

Pet groaned inwardly as the springs creaked above him and the sound of her drinking reached his ears again. Christ, but the evil young bitch was in the mood, wasn’t she? He twitched with another involuntary shudder. He sensed it was going to be one of those nights that came along from time to time, just like those early days of his captivity, when he’d been released from that horrible basement torture chamber.

Most nights now, it was more the ‘wham, bam and thank you ma'am’ attitude they had towards him. They used him, yes, but often so casually it was, or seemed, more out of habit than for any other reason. They needed or wanted sexual relief, and that’s what he was there for, so they used him. Simply because he was there to be so used! Mouth or rear end, sometimes both, however they fancied, and then, once they’d sated their depraved appetites, he was unceremoniously kicked off the bed to sleep on the floor until the next time he was required.

He’d become a… a fixture, an item, an object like a piece of furniture, no, more like the television, Master Rogers Switch console, or the somewhat dated stereo system for his main Master's vinyl collection. Something they took for granted, there to entertain them whenever they were in the mood for such entertainment. Humiliating, debasing, sometimes painful but quickly over, well, assuming he wasn’t required for one or more repeats, as so often with young Master Roger. Then again, there were nights like… like perhaps this one would be, like that very first night in this room with Miss Susan!

The sadistic young bitch had been randy that night, hadn’t she? His first taste of… well, you could hardly call it freedom. Not when they’d crammed him into the restrictive sleeves that doubled his limbs, reducing him to such a lowly, awkward state. He had at least been let out of his dungeon prison, and then, before he’d even begun to master the art of moving on his truncated limbs, he’d been dragged upstairs to this very room and……

She hadn’t bothered with her boots that night, nor on the next few occasions when it was her turn to have him. Maybe they were a later addition to her wardrobe, a little extra to enhance her superiority and dominance over him, though she didn’t need them for that! Her whips and canes had ensured it to the point that all she had to do was look at him and snap her fingers, and he obeyed instantly. He’d been terrified that night as well, and even more so when he watched the naked youngster strap that thing to her crotch for the first time, knowing full well what she intended to do with it and to whom!

Initially, it had all been so leisurely, almost like one of those slow-motion scenes in a film. Their journey from the lounge to the bedroom via the staircase, and his feeble efforts to climb the stairs on his new, stumpy limbs. She’d been patient and encouraging, not rushing him. Even in the bedroom, after she’d led him on the leash to her bed and then slowly stripped, unhurried and methodical, folding each item of clothing as she undressed. It had been no sensual striptease either, even though she knew he was watching. Simply a repeat of what she probably did every night, no more, no less.

Mind you, even if she had gone out of her way to tease and torment him with her youthful body, it wouldn't have mattered a jot. His cock was caged and locked away in its chastity device, but he doubted whether any performance on the nubile young miss’s part could have raised a single twitch from him that night. He’d been incarcerated for... for God knows how long in their torture chamber, suffering as no human being should ever have to, often at this young bitch’s hands. Now he was out, reduced to dog-like status, and trying to come to terms with that and the bizarrely normal world he’d emerged into. All of that added up to him being scared shitless, and no wonder! How the hell could anyone raise a ‘twitch’ under such circumstances!

His tormentor had given that same little shudder on the first night as she’d slid the ‘fun’ end of her toy into her personal love spot, ready to excite, titillate and ultimately satisfy its wearer. He realised later that he was ‘pegged’, not just to exert and emphasise their dominance over him, but because the devices they used also gave them great personal pleasure at the same time, probably no different from that of the male household members. No, strike that. It took time for them to warm up, as it were, and far longer to ride themselves to a climax, making the whole experience more sustained and far more painful and humiliating for him.

Three times, the girl had used him to climax that first time. A night that had seemed endless as he was being humiliatingly humped by the energetic young teenager. Being so used by father and son down in that awful torture room had been bad enough, but upstairs, in such a normal domestic setting and by a young girl, made it seem far worse. Maybe it was because, in a sense, he was free, whereas before he’d been helplessly strapped down over the end of that hateful bench!

But he hadn’t been free, had he, not really, and he’d still been helpless. The girl hadn’t needed to secure him to anything or use any restraints, and he was wide open, literally to her assault, as he quickly found out to his horror once that less-than-sensual striptease had ended. That cool, calm pose she’d adopted while disrobing was quickly abandoned as she produced that harness and, for the first time that… that thing that would violate him.

Worse, he instinctively knew there was nothing he could do to stop her. Likewise, his senses told him the young bitch was in heat, hot and eager to defile him as her father and brother had, while she’d watched and encouraged them from the sidelines down below. There had been no preamble, no warning. For once, that final strap had been pulled tight around her slim young body. Her fingers snapped, and one forefinger flicked out, pointing, as she issued the command, “Bed, now, up!”

It wasn’t that it had been impossible, although on his stumpy, doubled-up limbs, he still struggled to climb onto the low divan when so ordered. Back then, that first time, he could barely move, let alone take up mountain climbing, and, low as it was, it might as well have been the North Face of the Eiger. Her impatience, however, circumvented that problem as a hand grabbed his collar, hauling him up, while another reached under him, and he was pulled and heaved up and onto the girl’s bed by the surprisingly strong young madam.

From that point on, his memories were somewhat fleeting, no doubt subliminally suppressed by the horror of the situation and a degree of shock. He’d never been the least bit puritanical-minded, but this… what the girl obviously intended to do to him had perhaps frozen his mind to a certain extent. The photo button selected rather than video mode, perhaps! Not that anything should have surprised him after the past months, or however long it had been. He could replay other sessions on that same bed frame by frame, almost, not all of them, obviously, because there’d been so many and his little grey cells obviously had a gigabyte limit. At least so far as some horrors went!

Snapshots of that first time he could recall. Being roughly rolled over and heaved upwards, or partially so, so that a pillow or pillows could be wedged under him. The bedroom ceiling and the single pendant lamp in a pale pink lampshade above him. His new stubby limbs pointing upwards, frantically scrabbling to get a hold of nothing, for there was nothing for his knees and elbows to latch onto, like a turtle or tortoise turned on its back. Head down on her duvet, his rear end propped upwards, exposed, vulnerable, and worse, accessible! For once, it wasn’t a paddle, tawse or cane that he feared hurting him back there!

The girl above him, her eyes frighteningly demonic as she looked down at him, manoeuvred, straddling him with that monstrous thing, poised like the mythical Sword of Damocles. Only in this case, it wasn’t just a threat but a reality he was soon to experience. That terrible thing wasn’t hanging above him, suspended by a single horsehair, but thrusting obscenely from the crotch of his teenage Mistress, poised above him.

He could remember screaming as she entered him, violating his rectum with a single, penetrating thrust that drove deeper and deeper, as though she intended to pin him to her bed, like an insect on an entomologist’s specimen card. No warning, no preamble, not even a smidgen of ‘pussy lube’, nothing but that first invading thrust from the artificial monster, destroying his anus and, seemingly, what little remained of his sanity. To be violated in such a fashion by one so young, so pretty, and so….

He stiffened, frozen once more into immobility as he heard movement from above, the girl shifting on her bed again. One gleaming, leather-shod foot poked out from the end of the bed, and he heard the rustle of a page being turned. It was either a very long chapter or the girl was a slow reader. Unlikely, since he’d long since realised she was by far the ‘brightest’ member of the evil family. The most intelligent, streets and even entire neighbourhoods ahead of her younger brother, to use that old metaphor.

Maybe she’d decided to read another chapter, perhaps she might be so engrossed that… but no. He doubted that, no matter how good her book was, how entertaining, he’d still be on the receiving end of another ‘pegging’ before the girl was finished with him. Christ, how long had it been since he’d read a book? Or read anything, for that matter. He could listen to the news on the radio or TV from his basket, even grab a hasty, surreptitious look at the screen, but should he even glance at a discarded newspaper and be caught doing so… Well, it wouldn’t be a rolled-up newspaper they’d use, nor would it be his nose that got gently tapped, as a mischievous puppy might be. Nor would the punishment be the least bit gentle!

Three times the young bitch had taken him that first night. A piledriver pounding that had made him yell and scream again and again, his agonised howls joining her cries of orgasmic ecstasy as her vigorous hips pistoned that foul thing in and out of his rear end. A double-edged sword, for while he was cruelly impaled in a humiliating and painful manner on the business end of the thing, his youthful rapist was driven to ecstatic heights of pleasure at his expense. The other end of the monster, embedded within her love slot, proved the very opposite of what he suffered, as it massaged and stimulated all those nerves in her wanton pleasure zone.

He did have one vivid memory, or maybe it wasn’t, for he’d seen the same sight so many times when she took him thus. Her arms either side of him, her hips bucking and pumping. Her slim body above, face alight with eager lust, mouth open, pink tongue flicking round wet lips, and those small, pert breasts bobbing, tipped by large, swollen, rock-hard nipples! Maybe it wasn’t a memory of that night, for it had been no different earlier, had it? No different from… God knew how many other times. Given a choice, not that she or any of them ever would, he’d far rather be taken face down over a chair, or better still, the end of the bitch’s bed.

Face down, semi-smothered as he twisted his head back and forth, trying to breathe beneath the soft pink cover of her duvet, he could at least close his eyes and grit his teeth as he was… soundly fucked in the arse for her perverse pleasure. Unlike when he was face up. There would be a brief pause in the horrible assault, followed by that cold, irritated, threatening voice. “Open your eyes, boy, and look at me. Look at your rapist, look at me, or I’ll make you regret your impudence later!”

The young bitch would too, for she was like her mother in that respect. The proverbial elephants who never forget, unlike the male members of the household. They also frequently threatened dire repercussions for some real or imagined failure while using him, but most of the time, they immediately forgot about it once their lust had been sated. Genuine absent-mindedness or, more likely, sheer bloody laziness, pet suspected. They also never ‘raped’ him. Master Roger tended to refer to it as a bit of ‘loving’, whereas his Master called it ‘bitching’ him. Pegging, time for another ‘pegging’, his Mistress might say. Likewise, Miss Susan might use that term, but she was not averse to using the R word to his face.

Usually, when he was on his back on her bed, this bloody bed, with that thing in him or poised to enter as she smiled down at him. R for reality, or maybe unreality in this case. R for rectal intercourse. R for relishing his hapless humiliation! R for what it bloody well was, RAPE! Anal fucking rape. Although it was no longer as painful as it had been initially, the humiliation and feeling of… of… He swallowed hard and shifted position again, trying to switch his mind away from the subject and that cruel, smiling young face his open eyes had to stare up at. ‘Raping my big pet boy again, and nothing he can do about it!’

Bitch! He glanced up at that single booted foot above him and scowled. How many times had his tongue had to pay homage to that boot and its twin? Show respect, bloody respect! He had, and did so avidly, daily, because not showing sufficient respect was a major crime in the bitch’s eyes, but then what wasn’t in this house of hell! He recalled the old punch-up line, ‘Well, alright, I’d had a few pints, Officer, but I hit him because he was looking at me in a funny way!’ How many times had he been… well, far worse than punched for looking at one of them in a less than respectful, grovelling way! Nor was there any policeman around to intervene, or ever likely to be.

His eyes remained fixed on that single foot, or rather, the pointed leather toe of her right thigh boot that was in view. In a sense, it encompassed all and everything, did it not? Under that boot, he’d been reduced to a cringing, terrified, docile… what, had he become? A nothing, a nobody, a mere… thing, a pet. He wasn’t a slave, a prisoner, nor a captive, was he? Well, yes, he was a captive, held by a regime that was….

“Pet, hey boy, wake up!” he stiffened abruptly as a pair of gleaming black leather thigh-high boots swung down from the bed as she rose to stand beside him. “Time to earn your keep again. A little later than I’d intended, but better late than never, eh, Boy? Besides, look on the bright side. More time to fully recharge my energy cells, eh!” She smiled leisurely, stretching her upper body, working her shoulders, and setting her small, perky breasts bobbing.

They weren’t the only things to start bobbing, nor were his eyes fixed on those erotic fleshy mounds, but rather on something else her brief exercise had set wobbling. His eyes flickered up to her youthful, mocking face, then down as she giggled, wobbling the obscene, threatening monster that protruded from her groin with one slim finger!

“Bed boy, hup, hup!” Her other fingers snapped, emphasising the command.

Time to earn his keep again!