i’m so obsessed with desk pet trope….. work desk with a cubby underneath so you can put my dog bed under there for me to rest on… i’ll be there most of the day after all.
you can padlock my ankle chain to one of the legs or your computer chair and set a bowl of fresh water under there for me.
i’d end up curling up and dozing off to the soft “clack clack clack” of you typing and doing person things. nudging or kicking me or tugging on my hair to wake me up so you can pull me closer to warm you with my mouth for a couple of hours.
i get so sub spaced out when i’m kneeling and being ignored… nothing in the brain at all and no worries other than if i’m pleasing you the way you want…. you’re not speaking to me at all, just focusing on your work or a zoom call. play with my mouth and tongue with your fingers like a fidget toy, squeeze my cheeks to the point of pain when i groan and gag. wipe the spit off on my cheek and watch me turn bright red. have me sit there with my tongue out, ordered not to move or make a sound, just to humiliate me. occasionally ruffle my hair to let me know you’re happy with me.
Russell meets Lennon - pet whump, collars, swearing
Russell thought that maybe some kind of odd prank was being played on him when he pulled up to the trailer. Sure, he’d been in worse places, but there was something off-putting about the whole scenario; driving to some dingy scrapyard on the outskirts of town was supposed to help him close up a business deal? Christ.
A solitary streetlight lit up most of the property, washing everything in a muted yellow and making the encroaching darkness seem even more sinister. Russell turned off the car, making sure it was locked a few times before he steeled himself.
“It’s just business.”
A gangly man in a truckers hat and a heavy jean jacket met him at the door, swiping his sleeve under his nose and spitting out onto the dirt in front of Russell.
“Y’here for the account papers?”
Russell couldn’t help but pick up on everything going on behind the man; more washy yellow light concentrated from dusty mismatched lamps, the trailer's kitchenette barely spanning 3 feet, dishes piled in the sink. He pulled his eyes to meet the man, setting his shoulders.
“Yeah. Russell Barlowe.”
“Stu.”
Stu turned into the trailer, leaving Russell in the doorway, still a little on edge. He was going to have to call Pete after this, if only to penalize him for offering up a “middle man to make the transaction smoother” that turned out to be a grizzled, secluded trucker.
This Stu guy better be a fucking finance wizard.
“Y’comin’ in or y’gonna piss on my porch all night?”
Russell almost choked, taking a few halted steps inside and breathing deep to adjust as fast as possible. It smelled like tobacco, stale sweat, and kibble. The couches were stained and a little torn up, singed foam jutting out at the end cushions, but Russell took a seat anyway.
“Y’want somethin’ to drink? I gotta print some shit out before we wrap this up.”
Russell remembered the sink. “I’m alright, thanks.”
That’s when he spotted the food bowl. A flimsy silver dish, about the size of a bread plate, with the name ‘Lennon’ crudely carved on the lip. It looked like the only clean thing in the entire trailer.
“You got a dog?”
Stu snorted, hacking up a cough and spitting again, this time into the sink. Russell kept his face neutral.
“Hck, yeah.” And then he stalked into the back of the trailer, presumably where his printer was.
Russell busied himself by thumbing through the calendar on his phone, trying to memorize his schedule for tomorrow, what meetings with who, when to call Pete and lay into him, but he was interrupted.
A shape was moving out of the back of the trailer, and Russell leaned forward on the couch, offering out his hand for Stu’s dog to sniff. To show he wasn’t a threat.
A boy shuffled along the grimy particleboard on all fours, keeping pressed to the wall, and Russell stood up.
“What the fuck.” It came out as a whisper, a sharp release of air.
The boy was rangy and thin, dirty like the rest of the place, his hair slightly matted. Scars and bruises littered his skin, visible even beneath his ragged white t-shirt and boxers. The material was too thin to leave anything to the imagination. His eyes were huge and blue and teary, skittering from Russell to the back room over and over again. But Russell was laser-focused on the thing around the boy's neck. A thick, wrought-iron collar with a chain that fed into the back room, but was long enough that the boy could crawl to the food bowl. To Russell.
“Git.”
The boy scrambled back into the dark room, and Stu emerged holding a fresh manila folder.
“Sorry ‘bout that. He’s a nosy fucker. Got him too young.”
Russell tried to slow his breathing, to appear unfazed. Stu had a pet.
“How old is he?” It felt like an unobtrusive enough question.
Stu took off his hat and scratched through his hat-hair with long fingernails.
“Old enough.”
Russell didn’t know much about pets, but he was sure that it was illegal to own a pet under eighteen. The kid looked like he’d been here for years.
“Right.” Russell cleared his throat and took the folder from Stu, ready to get the hell out of there. “Thanks.”
Stu spat into the sink. “Not a problem, Mr. Barlowe, sir.”
Russell sat in his idling car, staring blankly through the windshield into the dark surrounding the trailer, the folder untouched in the passenger seat. He should be pulling out of here, getting home, taking a fucking shower.
Adrenaline made him shake, his hands tight on the wheel, the stench of the trailer still lingering. What the hell was he supposed to do? Charge back in there and snatch the kid? Call the police? Animal control?
“Fuck. Fuck. Okay.” It took him a few minutes to gather himself, to come to a decision that would alleviate whatever burning pyre of responsibility he suddenly felt for this kid. For a pet.
He’d do the only thing he really knew how to do when it boiled down to it.
