Family Pet

Part 9

He was far too familiar with the process to be taken by surprise these days, but still, he hadn’t expected the bastard to shoot his load so quickly and had a brief moment of apprehension as to what that might entail in terms of consequences. He swallowed, gulped and swallowed more of the foul, salty-tasting yuk as required while still somehow managing to lick and suck on the huge cock filling his mouth, all at the same time. Who said men couldn’t multi-task, lick, suck and swallow, but didn’t that relate to talking and doing something with your hands, not performing fellatio on one's Master’s penis?

The obese slob evidently wasn’t bothered that it was still early afternoon, or thereabouts, and hardly the time to be… then again, so far as he, the family pet, was concerned, it was any time one of the bastards who owned him felt randy. He’d certainly had no say in it, nor in anything else that happened to him, for that matter. He never had and presumably never would, and that was a deeply depressing thought.

“Coffee.” His Mistress entered the lounge with three mugs on a tray. At least he assumed they would be on a tray, as they usually were. Probably the big tin one with the picture of an Alsatian's head with its tongue lolling out. That was the usual one she used, and probably the Beatles mugs she’d bought from Amazon a couple of months ago. They seemed to be the ones in favour at the moment.

He couldn’t see, of course, couldn’t see anything not from his position with his head hard up against the big bastard's crotch! He could picture them in his mind. John, Paul, and George depicted in their early days of fame, complete with their famous hairstyles. Ringo almost certainly absent because Master Roger was upstairs in his bedroom, probably playing his Nintendo Switch or something. The boy always insisted on Ringo, whereas the other family members took whichever mug was nearest. Doubtlessly the boy was staying away from his mother who’d tentatively made the heinous suggestion during lunch that ‘Given it was such a lovely day, the teen might like to repair the puncture in his bicycle tyre and go for a nice healthy bike ride in the afternoon sun’.

A suggestion his young Master had immediately and loudly declined, which hadn’t surprised Pet one bit. The term ‘healthy’ and Master Roger were contradictory, incompatible, chalk and cheese and so forth. He’d even had the gall to use him. Pet, as his excuse!  Circumstances had meant that the youth had had him on bedroom duty for two nights in a row. The double ‘had’ being self-explanatory, for the youth had fucked him six times over that period and three of them had been prolonged demonstrations of his young master's vigour!

That last one alone must have been the equivalent of a ten-mile bicycle ride, both in intensity and duration. How the hell had the chubby, unfit little brat found the energy and stamina to do that, Pet had wondered as the pounding went on and on! Didn’t the medical profession advocate regular sex as a fitness or weight-loss thing? Christ, if that was the case, the little ‘bugger’ pun fully intended, ought to be bean-pole thin!

“I have had plenty of exercise, thank you,” the boy had politely informed his mother and then added with a snigger. “Remember, you had one of your headaches, so I’ve had a pet in my bedroom for two nights running. That was more than enough exercise!” The foul youth had even turned and directed a smirk towards his basket as he’d said that last part, the randy little bastard!

The boy had disappeared soon afterwards, no doubt carefully staying out of the way of his mother if the word ‘exercise’ was being bandied about. The young gent probably considered the word in the same way other people would consider the foulest of coarse, anti-social swear words. He’d disappeared upstairs straight after two helpings of the dessert course and was no doubt massacring pixel things on one of his many electronic devices. Almost certainly, in fact, for as far as the lazy little brat was concerned, reading a book was equally hard work although of a different kind and avoided almost as much as physical exercise!

“Aaaahhh, now that’s what I call a nice cuppa, Love,” his Master said, taking a sip from his steaming mug. He always said that, Pet knew, whether it be tea, coffee or the occasional hot chocolate before bed on a cold night. It was always what he called a ‘nice cuppa’. Originality was not the fat bastards' strong point! Likewise, his overuse of the adjectives ‘smashing’ and ‘cracking’. That was a smashing meal or a cracking movie. Rarely, if ever, good or great and so on, but always cracking or smashing.

Pet wondered whether he used the same terms at work, in the car showroom, where he sold prestigious high-end cars. ‘Yes, sir, a smashing vehicle, a cracking little runner.’ The kind of patter that seemed more suited to a dubious back-street auto trader selling even more dubious vehicles to naive customers with more money than sense. Hardly the polished dialogue of a highflyer selling top-end executive Mercs, Jags and so forth to those far less cash-conscious.

“Smashing.” The voice came from above him, accompanied by the sound of lips being smacked appreciatively. Something Pet couldn’t do with his Master's spent cock still in his mouth! The bastard had been late home the other night, after a champagne-and-canapé do at the car showroom for the launch of a new German model. An exclusive, invitation-only event for a limited number of long-term customers, plus a smattering of those they hoped to entice.

“Ahhh!” another appreciative grunt from above, and Pet trembled slightly as a palm descended upon his bald head, rubbing and stroking lightly. That was all it did, and Pet was left wondering if that sigh related to coffee or the fact that he’d just sucked the bastard off and still had his shrunken cock in his mouth along with the unpleasant lingering aftertaste of salty male spunk.

Nothing else, so after a moment Pet relaxed and picked up the thread of his thoughts again, since nothing untoward seemed imminent. Had the owner of the limp thing in his mouth circulated among the guests, extolling the ‘smashing’ features of the latest showroom arrival? Smashing, a pretty stupid British slang word for something good, great, even excellent, when you analysed it. Likewise, cracking for both had connotations of destruction, of breaking things up, hadn’t they? Hardly appropriate for the upmarket motor trade!

No, he doubted the bastard had used those terms. He also had, in what his wife called his ‘posh’ voice, his business one, which presumably included a more appropriate vocabulary. He’d heard him use it a few times when he took a business call at home. Crisper, more commanding, more like… like when the fat bastard gave him, Pet, an order! Yeah, heel, boy. Lick, suck, fetch, basket, rather than the lazy, almost slurred way he normally spoke at home. Yes, authoritative, crisper, firmer, but hardly calling for extensive knowledge of the English language! Then again, given his role and status, the obese slob didn’t keep him around to hold stimulating intellectual conversations with when he was bored, did he?

A typical Sunday afternoon in the front room at number 139 Rosemary Avenue. Typical for this bizarre, evil household, but probably, indeed almost certainly, unique compared with every other house in the country! Miss Susan was on the couch, legs curled under her as she concentrated on a thick book, most probably one from her university course. Apart from glossy fashion magazines, the girl rarely seemed to read anything else, certainly not the romantic fiction her mother was so fond of. A hardly surprising fact, given the thoroughly unromantic, lazy slob the not unattractive woman was married to, Pet thought.

His Mistress would sit in the other armchair, knitting rather than reading; she did that a lot, as, like most women, she was an accomplished multitasker. She could knit, watch TV and carry on a conversation on her mobile at the same time, for instance, without dropping a stitch, or, worse from his perspective, carry on a conversation, holding a mobile to her ear with one hand while beating his backside with a bamboo cane in the other! Master Roger had a whole drawer upstairs full of woolly jumpers he rarely wore, but at the moment the woman had downsized her considerable output. One of her colleagues at work was heavily pregnant with her second child and wasn’t a knitter.

Talk about variations, anomalies of personality! What would one of those medical head-shrinkers make of the woman? The cruel bitch was as two-faced, two-sided, two…two…had the same double personality as the rest of the family, come to that. Absolutely and one hundred per cent normal except when it came to him, the family pet. Pet listened to the clickety-clack of knitting needles as he considered that and decided maybe you could remove Master Roger from the equation, possibly? The lad didn’t have any friends nor apparently the best relationship with those in authority at the school he attended. Still, Pet thought to himself, the chubby juvenile sodomite didn’t go around raping his classmates, did he?

Normality rules, fucking okay! Take him out of the equation, and anyone peeping in through the window of 139 wouldn’t find much of interest, would they? A normal weekend afternoon family scene, nothing remarkable to see here! Only they wouldn’t see anything, because the windows all had thick opaque net curtains on the inside, a simple but effective barrier between him being visible and not. He knew that because his Mistress had recently changed them, and he’d been in the room when she’d tried several samples, Miss Susan peering in from outside.

His Mistress had reluctantly discarded ‘the prettiest’ because her daughter told her that she could see it, him, kneeling by the sofa or at least his naked shape. Not clearly, but enough to be of interest should any pervert come peeping. Pervert! Yeah, talk about pot calling kettle black! He’d spent half the previous evening accommodating the business end of one of the girls' favourite stap-ons! Besides, the chances of anyone walking the length of Rosemary Avenue to put their face hard up against the front room windowpane were… were, well, pretty bloody negligible!

No, hardly anybody ever troubled the doorbell at number 139, not even the what-you-call-ems, those Jehovah’s Witnesses. The religious nutters who were persistent and generally unwelcome ringers of doorbells throughout the country, delivering their doorstep verbal crap about being saved. Not that he’d object to being ‘saved’ under his present circumstances, although his interpretation of the word would be a tad different from theirs.

Pet wondered whether it was safe to move his head back and free that unwanted intruder from his mouth, but he discarded the idea immediately. No, not until he was told or shoved roughly away, which was more likely. His was to obey, not to think and act for himself. A lesson that woman with the clicking needles had brutally taught him, only it hadn’t been a pair of knitting needles she’d used on him as she thrashed that message into him! What a fucking contrast, soft baby woollies to the kind of beatings she’d so frequently and mercilessly delivered upon his tortured flesh!

Even now, after all this time, he still found it incredible, so damn surreal, all of it, the craziness, the perversions, the… and yet at the same time it was all so fucking ordinary, so mundane. The sound of knitting needles making a baby jacket, the rustle of textbook pages, the football commentators' overused clichés on the TV, and him with a cock in his mouth! Bizarre, that was the right word to describe it all, fucking bizarre and bizarre with bells, whistles and knobs on! The full works, in fact!

He couldn’t see them, of course, not from his undignified position, kneeling on his stubby doubled-up little limbs with his body and head thrust forward into his Master's crotch. Everything was black, hot and stinky. The stench of the bastard's groin filled his nostrils, wiry pubic hair scratched his face, and a shrunken, flaccid penis filled his mouth. Pray God that the damn thing stayed that way; the last thing he wanted was to feel it twitch or show signs of coming to life and wanting more ‘positive’ attention from him.

He pondered that for a moment, wondering why he felt so strongly about it. Hell, it wasn’t as if it was a new experience, was it? He’d long since lost count of how many times he’d paid homage to male cocks, his master’s or equally foul son’s. Paying ‘homage’, another of their silly terms, or, in this case, one unique to his Master. “Homage, boy, homage, pay some respect to your Master!”

Not that it was any different from ‘Suck, lick and swallow’. It was just a different name for the same horrible debasing act. His mouth teasing a male cock to full, pulsating, eager erection and then slowly, never rushing the hateful act, bringing the owner of said cock to sexual orgasm and swallowing every drop of the slimy, salty gunk that ultimately spurted out of the bulbous head! Christ, how many times had he done that, and would one more make any difference? No, was the answer to that question, but he just…just hated doing it, hated himself for performing the loathsome act so complacently and yet what choice did he have?

Pet couldn’t see anything, but he didn’t have to. He’d spent countless hours in the corner of this room, watching his owners when not required. He’d been there when he was summoned to serve and satisfy his Master's cock. He would lie in the corner on his blankets, the female members of the family in or on their respective seats, and his Master in the usual armchair, watching a football match on the TV.

They weren’t anywhere near the half-time whistle when the bastard had yanked down his fly zip and pulled his cock out, snapping his fingers and ordering “Here, Boy. Lick and suck!” Pointing downwards with one finger at the monstrous thing he wanted licked and sucked. What's more, the guy hadn’t even spared his pet a glance, remaining fixed on the action taking place on the big wide-screen television and presumably had done so right throughout the disgusting act of oral worship his pet had performed on him. The only exception being him emitting a couple of grunts and stroking the bald head between his legs just before his erect cock had given a final twitch and started spurting copious amounts of foul-tasting, slimy male seed!

Talk about incongruity! Football on the TV, academic homework, needles clicking away to produce baby clothes, and then…him, naked, limbs doubled up and trussed, with a spent cock in his mouth! Yeah, a typical family Sunday afternoon at number 139 Rosemary Avenue.

“Finished, dear?”

“No, you know I never drink it fast. I like to savour my coffee even if it is only instant”.

“Shows how much of a connoisseur you are, then,” his Mistress snorted derisively. “I used the pod unit the kids bought us for Christmas. The supermarket has started selling refills, I noted, so I thought I’d get some, and they weren’t cheap, either.”

“Never are”, came the grunt from above. “All the same, those machines, like computer printers and their ink cartridges, they’re a right rip-off as well. Should never have wasted money on the damn thing and it does taste a bit odd!”

“Oh, thank you and a merry Christmas to you, Mister Scrooge”, Miss Susan coldly added from the other side of the room. It’ll be scarf and gloves next time, and that reminds me. Make that kid not kids for someone who happens to be absent still owes me his share of the present!”

“I don’t ever wear scarves or gloves!” the man growled, sinking deeper into his chair, one hand lightly holding the back of Pets’ head, as though ensuring he remained on duty.

“Yeah, that was kind of the point, Daddy dear. Now, please be quiet and watch your silly little men kicking their silly little ball around a silly grass field for the entertainment of thousands of other silly men and let me concentrate on my next exam!”

There was another grunt from above, then “Yeah, they’re really silly, aren’t they? Getting paid half a million quid a week to spend ninety minutes or so kicking a ball a few dozen times. That’s the height of foolishness, I don’t think!”

He heard Miss Susan give one of her derisive sniffs. “Well, blame yourself. You’re at the bottom of the food chain. You pay an exorbitant fee to watch games live. The TV company pays an exorbitant fee to the people who run the league, and they pass that money on to the clubs, who immediately throw it down the drain on exorbitant player-agent fees and a weekly wage bill that boggles the mind. I read somewhere that you could pay the entire monthly staff salaries of a medium-sized hospital for a month on what an average Premier League club pays its first-team squad for a week!”

“It's a high-value business,” her father protested, fondling Pet's head, though there was still not a twitch from the thing in his mouth. “Entertainment!”

“Is that why you’ve spent most of the last half hour grumbling and muttering sourly at the screen then, being entertained?” his Mistress interjected. “Apart from when you were grunting and making those other funny noises while Pet was sucking your off!”

Pet heard the muted sound of a whistle and the commentator say, "That’s it, nil-nil, and the end of a distinctly uneventful first half. We can only hope the second half is an improvement, which wouldn’t take much! Now back to the stu…" then the set was switched off. His Master hated adverts. Pet felt something hard tap the top of his smooth-shaven head a couple of times, the remote, he guessed. The bastard always claimed it the moment he sat down to watch TV and resented anyone else taking possession of the device.

“Yeah, lotta money in the game these days”, his Master said thoughtfully, tapping the remote a couple of times. “Maybe we should have encouraged Roger a bit more when he was younger, got him to join a junior team, maybe even a trial at a professional club. He might….”

“Whatever young Master Roger might have become was lost in the hysterical scream of mirth his older sister let out.

“Roger! Him playing football! The only time he had the energy to kick anything was in mummy’s womb, and I’ll bet he was too lazy to do that!”

“I can’t remember; I don’t think so. You did, as I recall, but you were the first. Maybe I was more used to it when I was carrying your little brother. Yes, you were somewhat energetic, I think back. I’ll clear away and wash the mugs if you’ve both finished.”

Still in his mouth, this must be a damn record. Was there such a thing, Pet wondered, a sexual equivalent to the Guinness Book of Records? Most prolonged fuck, biggest cock, deepest vagina, loudest orgasmic shriek…longest time a spent flaccid cock had been held in someone's mouth?  Or what about the biggest dildo up some poor buggers arse! Yeah, his Mistress wasn’t the only one who could vouch for Miss Susan being somewhat energetic!

He heard the clatter of mugs being collected, then the voice of his Mistress nearby. “Have you finished with it?”

“Yeah, can I just have instant next time? That wasn’t very smashing, sweetheart. Those pot, pod, whatever they are things don’t taste quite right to me, whichever one you use, and you know I’m not fussy about coffee. Brown, hot and wet with a drop of milk and two sugars is all I ask, and you can stick your Crappychino’s, flat blights and all the rest!”

“Oh, very funny, and I didn’t mean your coffee mug; I meant that pathetic creature between your legs. Have you finished with Pet? I missed my turn the other night, remember, so I’ve a little catching up to do, and I’m not really in the mood for knitting and fancy something else, so?”

“Sure, Honey, anything to oblige and I’m finished with it anyway!”

The cock was out of his mouth before he had time to think about it, as his vision was restored, daylight returning and the rank smell of his master's sweaty groin gone, as a hand firmly grasped his collar, yanking him backwards. He fell to the floor and tried to roll over but was momentarily stopped by a plain brown sensible female shoe impacting painfully on his ribs.

“Up, get up, cocksucker! Upstairs with you and wait at the foot of my bed, MOVE!”

Pet moved, aided by that sensible shoe this time making painful contact with his whip-scared right buttock cheek. He scuttled as fast as his restricted limbs would allow out of the door, heading for the staircase while his Mistress headed for the kitchen with her tray.

Yup, just another 'normal’ Sunday afternoon at 139 Rosemary Avenue!