The Homecoming

The third day dawned grey and damp, much like the one before it. Eamon remained in his kennel, a hollow ache where his soul used to be. The routine of kibble and degradation had settled into a numb rhythm. But this day was different. This was a treat.

Derick came for him mid-morning, his usual smirk replaced by a look of raw, animal hunger. He dragged Eamon not into the cottage, but into a small, musty outbuilding that smelled of hay and manure. Doris was already there, sitting on a bale of hay, her legs spread wide, her skirt hitched up. She was watching, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Derick didn't bother with words. He ripped the bit gag from Eamon's mouth. Eamon's jaw ached, but he had no time to process the sensation before Derick's thick, calloused fingers tangled in his hair, holding him tight. He used Eamon's mouth with a brutal, animalistic urgency, his thrusts deep and punishing, choking him. Eamon gagged, his eyes watering, but there was no escape. Derick held him like a vice, using him for his own pleasure.

"Go on, Derick!" Doris cheered, her voice booming in the small space. "That's it! Show the bitch who's master! Take the little doggy!"

When Derick was finished, he wiped himself on Eamon's hair and stepped behind him. Eamon felt a fresh wave of agony as Derick ripped out the tail/dildo before forcing himself into Eamon. The pain was excruciating, a double violation that tore a scream from his throat. Derick pounded into him, his grunts and Doris's cheers a horrifying symphony of depravity.

"Look at you, my big stud of a houndog!" Doris shrieked, applauding. "Taking the bitch like that! Give it to him, Derick! Make him howl!"

And Eamon did howl, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that was lost in the cacophony of their lust.

When Derick finally shuddered and pulled away, Eamon was a broken, trembling mess. He thought it was over. He was wrong. It was Doris's turn.

Dereck pulled him to the hay bale where Doris's legs widened, her face flushed with excitement. She didn't want him the way Derick did. She wanted his mouth. Her thighs tightened against his ears, blocking out the world. All that existed was her. She was relentless, grinding against him, using his tongue, his nose, his chin for her pleasure. Her hands gripped his hair, holding him in place as she rode him, her breath coming in ragged gasps until she finally convulsed with a cry, her juices flooding his face.

She stayed there for a long moment, her weight heavy, suffocating. Then she climbed off, patting his cheek as if he were a favored pet. "Good boy," she murmured.

By the time they were done with him, Eamon was eager to return to his Mistresses. The thought of Elizabeth and Miriam, of the familiar torment of his own home, was no longer a source of fear. It was a sanctuary. He didn't think he could make it through the week. He didn't think he could make it through another hour. He knelt in the filth and the hay, his body a ruin, his mind a shattered mirror, and prayed for the Rover to come back, to take him home to the hell he knew.