Fifty Shades of Shitz

I met him just as I was graduating from Mrs. Strongbow’s Academy for Pooches and Paws.  Graduating first in my class was what probably caught my master’s ever so critical eye.  He’s a stickler for always doing your best.

From the very first moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Mr. Alexander Lipshitz.  His strikingly handsome, marginally wrinkled face, and even his hunched back had a charm that struck a match to my budding libido.  Mr. Lipshitz may have been bald, but who needs hair? I had enough fur for both of us.  Three squares a day and a warm place to sleep.  That’s the ticket!  Maybe a ball or two to chase.  A walk each day would be nice, but who’s quibbling?  My palpitating heart only asked that he pet me and love me.

Mr. Lipshitz is a man of means.  Running water.  Space heater.  The whole shebang.  His company, Pile-o-Shitz Industries is a force to be reckoned with and over the years has made him hundreds of dollars.

In fact, when he first brought me home, it was a little intimidating to see him open a can of dog food himself and spoon a dollop straight into my watering mouth.  So sensual!  I wanted to lick his hand, but he shied away.  Not being touched is one of his big no-nos.

He’s very clever and refined, from the way he delicately chews his hangnails to the way he swipes the tip of his tie across his gently weeping nostrils.  And his twisting of the can opener, making supreme use of his opposable thumbs, filled me with awe. I could name a thousand dogs who would like to be his bitch.  Why oh why did he pick me?  I may be beautiful, but I’m utterly useless.  Then again, no female could ever be beautiful enough for this prime perfection of maleness.

That was before I’d seen his darker side.  I knew I’d have to learn to love that part of him, too.  But, the thought made my legs shake like I had to wee-wee very badly, although I didn’t have to wee-wee.

I’d learned to dance on my hind legs, chase my tail, sit, rollover, and other useful measures to gain praise and dog biscuits. I figured that should be sufficient for anyone other than a diehard dog abuser.

However, I had no idea how addicted my new master was to attaining perfection.  I soon found out.  “I hope you understand I don’t do love and there are certain rules.”

I understood, but I looked up at him mournfully.  He doesn’t do love?  Pity my poor heart.

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” he said, with an expression of mild irritation.

Since those eyes are the only ones I have, I looked down at the floor.  Apparently, that was downcast enough to please him.  He cut up part of his steak, placed the bits on a plate and set it on the floor.  That was kindness itself as I’m only a foot and a half high at the shoulder.  Paws on the table and getting my tongue within striking distance is a feat I’ve not yet mastered.

As I gobbled away, he continued speaking.  “There are rules.”

“Hummm,” I answered, swallowing another hunk of delicious meat.

“You must agree to the rules.”   I waged my tail.

“No biting.  No crapping on the carpet.  No muzzle to the groin.  No shedding. No leg shaking.”

That got my attention.  Holy cow! No shedding?  He thinks it’s a doggie trick to let clumps of fur fall everywhere?  Roll over.  Speak.  Watch me not shed?  Shedding took centuries to perfect.  And, the leg shaking was going to be hard to control when his dark side came out and I felt like peeing and crapping and drooling, one at a time and in unison.

“No sitting on furniture,” he continued.  “No licking your chute-of-love in public.  No licking private parts when you meet another dog.  No chasing cats unless I give the kill order.  No fleas.  No worms.  No skidding across the rug on your rump.  No looking sad. No getting fat.”

So far there was nothing I couldn’t live with, although that last one was a doozy.  I hope he realized a girl can’t stay young forever. 

“I know you can dance, but you must learn to tango, samba, moonwalk, and all the moves on Dancing With the Stars.”

Difficult, but doable, given time…. like a hundred years.

“Failure to obey will be punished.”

Yeah?  Yeah?  What kind of punishment?  Huh?  Will it hurt?  Will I scar?  Will I secretly like it?  Will we be naked?  Well, I know I will be.

“I will use various forms of punishment, depending on my mood and how much you have displeased me.  There’s the face slapping. The eye gouging.  The tail pulling.   Garroting  with my silk tie.  Hours of rap music.  The sweet joy of whips and chains and suspension with nipple clips.”

Dear lord.  What next?  Riding crop across my six perky breasts?  Full anal insertion of a cattle prod?  Gonna have to be careful around this guy or I could end up a stuffed ornament for his entryway.

I pictured him telling dinner guests: She was a good dog.  Died with a cattle prod up her ass.  Look, you can still see the handle.

“By the way, I take it you’re a virgin.” That little remark awoke me from my reverie.

I wagged my tail, hoping against hope that he was not going to unzip and plug the leak in my dyke himself.

“We’ll have to fix that.  I know you can be a good bitch.”

The raw words got my legs shaking like an epileptic mutt at the base of Mount Vesuvius.

“I told you no leg shaking!  Now I must punish you.  This does not give me pleasure.”

The drool coming out the edges of his mouth and the sick and sudden smile told a different story and not one with a happy ending.

He took the end of my leash and applied a fast pop to my backsides.  OOH, I winced.

“You’ll learn to love this.”

My ass had its doubts and the doubts multiplied like rabbits-in-heat with each crack of the leather strap.  After awhile, he gave it a rest.  I noted the front of his pants looked like he’d been nose raped by a slobbering bulldog.

“A virgin,” he said, as if it hadn’t been said before.  “We’re going to have to find you a stud”

Holy shit! Wait just a cotton pickin’ minute!  A stud is a male horse, right?  A horse would turn my bubbling brook into a flooded Mississippi delta.  We’re not just talking a little bit of innocent deranged S&M between consenting animals.  I could end up walking bowlegged for the remainder of my very short life.

“Let’s see.  What’s your preference?  A Chow on a footstool?  Hand assisted fondling with a Chihuahua?  Punished by an oversexed Great Dane?  Taught your lesson by a Pit Bull with a mean streak?”

Bob, I think I’ll just stick with what’s behind door number one and remain a virgin ‘til my pipes rust.

The momentous day came and it turned out my partner was to be a nice, friendly Labrador.  He and I just nodded, as my master put straps around my four ankles and fastened the straps to the floor.  I could probably have moved, but my feet wouldn’t be going with me.

Next, my master moved the lab into position, donned a latex glove and helped the lab slide into me.  It didn’t hurt too much.  In fact, it felt kinda nice.  That was until my master wrapped a strap around both of us dogs and cinched it tight.  We weren’t going anywhere, and we’d be going there together.

That was bad enough, and I know the lab must have felt like Fido the Rodeo Dog in a pig-riding contest.

Then it happened.  My master unbuckled his belt and pulled it off.  Wrapping the buckle end around his hand, he began flailing away at the lab’s already nervously twitching behind.

“Move that ass, son!” he whooped.  “Ride that bitch like you mean it.”

At that point, the lab probably would have fucked a muskrat.  I know I would have.

Again and again the belt came down.  “Plow that field!  I wanna see you lay some pipe!”

He was laying pipe, all right.  I could testify in a court of law that pipe was being laid.  The field was also being sufficiently plowed to feed several African nations and the entire Indian sub-continent.

The next thing I knew, the act was over.  I didn’t feel the lab being unstrapped, but one look at him told me he wouldn’t be fucking again anytime soon.

After the lab had left, my master praised me.  His yellow-toothed grin showed his delight.  He patted my head, gave me a cold drink of Fiji water, and brought a vet in to examine me.  It was Sunday.  The vet must have cost him a fortune, unless of course it wasn’t really a vet, but just another perv who wanted to admire my Carlsbad Cavern.  Next a dog groomer from the most expensive salon came in to brush out my coat and do my nails.

“This is such a cute doggie,” she crooned, patting my head, while my nails dried.  “I don’t believe you’ve had one last three days before, Mr. Lipshitz.”

I’d lasted three days?  Wow!  I was so proud of myself.  Bet those other bitches were whiners, with worms, who couldn’t moonwalk.

All in all, it hadn’t been that bad.  In an odd sort of way, I enjoyed being mounted by a stranger who was strapped to my back and whipped half to death.  My only thought was, what would the suspension and nipple clamps be like?

My master soon answered my questions.  “I’ve decided not to use the nipple clamps.  Instead, I’m going to introduce you to the pleasures of anal play with a reptile.”