being a perverted freak yet so shy is such a struggle, like there's just sooo many things i want you to do to me, but I'm too shy to say it to you.
which is exactly why, you should hold me down on your lap, and force me to tell you every single thing i fantasize about you. make me say it in details and touch me just like that, exactly how i describe it. "is this it, baby? is this how you imagine me using you? is this how i touch you in your fantasies? tell me all of it, my love, and i promise to make you feel even better than you do in those fantasies of yours."
Invited Daddy to come to the bar with me last night, but they couldn't make it, so we called on my drive over instead. Genuinely didn't think watersports was something I was into, but it keeps sneaking its way into dirty talk with folks and I'm not mad at it.
Why did they telling me they're gonna tie me up and make me earn the right to use the toilet turn me on so fucking much? I don't man! It just did!
Also, to hear them say, in no uncertainty "I always want to I fuck you" / "I can't wait to grope you" is so fucking hot.
butch who swears she'll just rub your clit but then slips a finger lower and "doesn't it can so good" and before you know it there's 3 fingers and it feels really good but she swears "you can take more baby" before fisting you until you can't speak
controversial opinion but sexting is fantastic i love it, them telling you what to do, taking their time to type out the perfect message, putting trust in eachother and listening to their instructions and being talking through it over text ughh like come here i could do this for years
I just think it’s super hot when people are bent over naked like, face down ass up showing everything. Like they’re just so fucking horny they don’t even wanna know what comes next it’s the perfect position like I could spit in your hole one minute and be breeding you the next and you’re just so desperate for it you don’t even care you’re practically shoving your hole in my face you just drool all over yourself and cum ? It’s fucking slutty.
There's a tension headache teasing the edge of my skull when I pull into the driveway. It's dull, low throb has been there for weeks: a not-so-gentle reminder that 12 hour work days and half-as-long sleep hours are not ideal functioning conditions. Just a little while longer, I remind myself, thoughts swirling with everything work-related as I open the front door.
I'm greeted with the smell of sizzling onions and fried ground beef, french fries baking in the oven, and sweet baked beans on the stove, lid ajar. Our table had been set with colorful mismatched plates and silverware, and glasses gently crinkling with melted ice. I set my work bag aside and my shoes by the door, following the scent like a bloodhound until I spot the one I'm looking for. My wife is at the stove, eyes focused on a pan of caramelized onions–knowledge of that arduous process makes my heart melt. They're one of my favorite treats, and I know they made it just for me. To make a batch as large as the one in their pan took hours.
“It smells wonderful in here,” I call out, loud enough to not frighten them when so focused on the task at hand. They break eye contact with the pan, and the minute they see me, they smile wide enough that their dimples are on full display.
Within a moment, my arms are around them. I sink my head into the crook of their neck, and breathe in the touch of sweat and remnants of a musky cologne. I let out a long, huffing sigh. They smell like home and all the thoughts in my head seem to pause, at least for a little while.
“Oh darling,” my wife whispers, turning off the stove with a click and turning around to pet the top of my head. “Puppy have a hard day?”
I let out a soft, sad howl into their shirt, and looked up at them, eyes wide. Their short, clean cut nails dig into my scalp, and I let out a hum of appreciation. When they pause, I find my words again and, in turn, the anxiety.
“Just the usual,” I step away. “This deadline is approaching in just a few weeks and there’s still so much left to do. We barely have anything left of our initial budget.” I find myself clenching my fist, and I can feel my headache begin to pound again. “I’m probably going to have to beg for an extension, or at least some extra money to pay for overtime.” I start to rub my eyes, and the pressure on my eyelids relieves the pain, if only for a bit. I look up. “Sorry, enough work. Thank you for dinner.”
“Of course,” My wife leans over and kisses me, and I can feel the scratch of stubble on their chin as they do. It's my favorite. “Nothing fancy, but I thought burgers and fries sounded good.”
“It definitely smells good. Let’s sit?” I walk over to the table, and pull their chair out for them.
“Wait, before we do…Close your eyes?”
I frown. “What for?”
“I got you something. A little gift.” My frown softens, and I can sense a nervous quiver in my wife’s voice. It's cute, and to hear they got me a gift makes my heart swell. They’re always so thoughtful. “It was supposed to be for your hormone anniversary but, well, it came early and I really want to give it to you.”
I beam, and my smile threatens to jump off my face. I always do a little party to celebrate the day I started hormone therapy. It's like a second birthday to me, a day when I started to feel like myself for the first time in my life. I feel nothing but pure adoration for my wife, and close my eyes.
My wife lets out a giddy sound, and then from behind me I listen to the sound of paper rustling. I can hear the shrill sound of a scissor snipping through a plastic bag, and the soft jingle of something metal. Then: the sound of their soft footsteps approaching, and the sensation of their gentle lips pressed against the back of my neck before a band of leather is stretched across it. It's snug, not tight, and I feel the clasp on the back close. Just when I think I can open my eyes, my wife holds me firmly in place, and I wait as they fish something from their pocket and snap it shut. Then, they step back.
“Okay, now open.” I turn around and look at them, feeling at the collar around my neck. The leather feels soft and supple under my skin, beautifully made with simple stitching. A tag is on the front that lets out a gentle noise when I touch it. I feel around to the back of the neck, and recognize the heavy weight of a lock clasped between the buckle and the leather, making it impossible to remove without the key. The realization sends a shiver down my back.
“How do I look?” I ask, turning around to face my wife with my hand still at my throat.
“Like a beautiful, pampered pet,” they smile in return. “Here, see,” they pull out their phone and open up the camera, flipping the screen so I can finally see the beautiful black leather collar flush against my skin. I can see the quality of the leather in how soft it is, glossy and well-oiled, with polished silver hardware and a simple gold tag. Now, in the reflection of the phone camera, I can read what it says.
On one side, my name, in an elegant, curving script. On the back, it states, “beloved pup,” with the phrase “owned by” and the name of my wife. It's true, and it's perfect. Beloved, gentle, adored pet, owned and taken care of by the one who stands before me.
“Do you like it?” My wife asks. I pull them close, holding their face as I kiss them as my response. Before I get too carried away with the taste of their lips against my own, I pull away and rest my head against their chest. “What does Puppy say?” They ask gently.
“Thank you, it's wonderful,” I murmur.
My wife pets my hair again, and then forces my face to look up to them. I let out a sharp sound in response, and they repeat themselves. “Puppies don’t talk. What does puppy say?”
I give a short, yipping bark, and feel my face heat up in embarrassment.
“Good boy,” my wife lets go of my hair with a smile, and sits in the chair I pulled out for them. “Come now,” they wave me over to the seat next to them. “Sit.” I can hear the firm, commanding tone in their voice, and it cuts off the protest in my head. I wasn’t expecting to actually wear the collar right now, but with it locked on me, I don’t have much of a choice.
I take a seat next to them, but sometime between me coming in and me sitting down, they’ve replaced the plate in front of me with a stainless steel bowl. A dog bowl. I see on their plate they’ve already begun setting out and serving their meal: a burger placed on a bun, decorated with veggies and ketchup, alongside french fries and a serving of baked beans. Once my wife finishes serving themself, I reach out to begin filling my plate. They snap their fingers at me.
“No!” My wife says sharply. “Puppy needs to wait.”
“Please–” I start, before they shush me harshly.
“Again, puppies don’t speak. What do puppies say?” I let out a soft bark, but it's good enough for them.
My wife takes my bowl, and puts in it two large beef patties, some veggies, a pile of caramelized onions, and fries, and then sets it back in front of me. I hate to admit it, but the scent of the onions and the juicy meat makes my mouth water, and I whine, shifting in my seat. I look over at them, and see they've already started to eat. I haven’t eaten since my meager lunch break, and my stomach growls with words I can’t say. I whine, and my wife finally remembers I’m there. “Go ahead, eat.”
I look around for any silverware to cut my patties into manageable pieces, and finding none, I gingerly stick my hand in the bowl instead to pick out a french fry. Their snap in front of my face startles me, and I pull back, feeling a heat pooling in my stomach of unfounded shame. “That’s not how you eat, silly boy.” I watch them for a moment with pure confusion on my face and I see a look of sympathy cross my wife’s face. “Do I need to show you how? Poor puppy.” They scratch the back of my head, and I unconsciously lean into their touch. The moment my eyes close shut from the comfort, their grip turns hard again, and they push my face into the bowl and hold it there. “Eat.” They say, firmly.
The juicy, cooked-rare patties fill my nose and mouth with a warm, meaty smell. I can feel a thin layer of oil and dripping sticking to my skin, The scent of the sweet, perfectly browned and jammy onions are glue to my cheeks, and the rapidly softening crinkle-cut fries are pressed into mush against my chin. My wife’s grip is so firm, I struggle to open my mouth. After a moment of my choked noises, they relent enough for me to inhale sharply and close my jaw onto anything in the bowl I can get my teeth on. Once I pierce the meaty flesh, and the oozing beef lands on my tongue, I become keenly aware that I’m not just hungry, I’m ravenous. I’m ripping, tearing, gnawing and scarfing at the food placed in front of me, trying to swallow and bite in the same motion all at once. The tag at my neck smacks the edge of the bowl each time I swallow, and I’m pressing my tongue flat against the empty bowl when my collar is yanked up.
“All done?”
It takes a moment for the words to register as directed at me, my brain struggling to translate the collection of sounds into specific meaning. When I’m able to cut through the cloud of submission sitting just on the edge of my thoughts, I nod. My reward is a collection of furious hair scratches, pets, and soft, gentle noises. I make out the words, “Good boy!” and my whole body wiggles with glee before I can tamp it down.
I shake my head furiously, and I can feel the doggy haze begin to lessen. I have a full day of work tomorrow, and I still have to pull my clothes out, iron them, take a shower, and finish my normal nightly skincare routine. This has been fun, but I have too much on my plate to truly enjoy it and get into scene. I go to kiss my wife, then think twice on account of the food smeared on my face, and lean against them instead.
“This was nice, thank you,” I whisper to them, and smile. I nudge them slightly, and when they turn to face me, point to my neck. “Unlock me?” They smile.
“The key is in the bedroom. Let me get it.” Just like that, they’re off, the soft step of their socked-feet muffled against the carpet of our bedroom. While waiting, I start to put the leftovers away and rinse the dishes (and, uh, my bowl). I’m stacking the used pans in the sink–I’ll wash them later, once I get everything else done. I tilt my head at the sound of jingling keys, and then my wife’s arms are wrapped around my waist in a surprise hug. She lifts me off the ground just slightly, but I laugh, voice high with sheer glee. She gives me a half-twirl and then sets me back down, one arm still holding me firm.
My wife is strong. This isn’t for debate. They’re proud of the time they’ve spent at the gym, toning their muscles. It's never been a priority for me, but I admire their dedication, especially now that they’re able to hold me in place with just one arm. With the other, they grab me gingerly by the wrist, pulling my arm up, closing my fist, and moving it close enough to them that they can start slipping a leather mitt over it. Before I can realize that no, they didn’t go to retrieve the keys, I feel the leather buckle tighten around my fist and another lock secures it in place, making it impossible to remove.
“Hey, I thought you were getting the key–” I start to say, pulling away from them, but their grip on me is firm.
“Puppy thought that, didn’t he?” my wife grunts, reaching for and pinning my newly-gloved paw to my hip despite my protests. I’m shaking and trembling now, trying to shake them off, to tear the paw off, to wiggle out of their grasp and break free. They hold me tightly, unshaken while my breath turns ragged. When my arm gets sore, they whisper into my ear, “Done yet, mutt?”
I whine. It's involuntary, but I can’t deny the ache that my wife’s husky voice leaves in my gut. I try, in vain, to break free again, but it's pathetically weak. I’m exhausted and helpless in their grip.
“Good boy, let me do this for you,” they say to me. My other arm is held limply in their hands, and my second paw is slipped over, tightened, and locked. My hands are balled into fists beneath the leather casing, and they feel like useless things, all bound up. I make a pitiful noise in my throat as they pet my hair, then they shove me to the floor. “All fours, there you go.” I’m on my knees, looking up at them, just waiting.
Their smile is soft, and so very kind. From down here, looking up at them, they look like the sun, the moon, every celestial body in the sky. They’re the center of my vision, and the light of my life. I want to be good for them, in every sense of the word, because they are so, so good to me.
They whistle, waving me over to follow. I’m awkward at first, stepping gingerly in paws I haven’t worn in some time, but once we’re on the carpet of the living room instead of the tiled kitchen, I move easier. They’re sitting on the couch, feet propped up, turning the TV onto some show we’ve both seen a million times. I recognize the opening song, vaguely, as I come to sit at their feet. I look up at them, and in their lap I notice a collection of leather buckles and straps.
My puppy hood. I whine, I want it so bad. My face feels so bare without it, and as I press my chin into their lap, I feel a twinge of longing for my snout and ears. When they don’t respond, I give a short, huffing bark that catches their attention, and point my nose to their lap.
“Oh puppy,” they coo. “Do you want this?” They hold up my hood, pointing the snout back at me. It's my face, staring back at me–a piece of craftsmanship I’ve meticulously cared for, altered, and customized in the years I’ve finally been able to be myself. It's not the most expensive article of leather in my collection–my complete uniform of leather formal wear takes that title–but it is my most beloved. I see brush marks detailing my scruffy chin fur, a punched grommet with silver jewelry dangling from the ears, even a small scuff I had been unable to buff out from an evening of pressing my face to the concrete. I bark, and whine, and scratch my leather paws into the carpet.
“Okay, okay, I understand. Turn around, yes, good boy,” I preen, and press the back of my head against the couch. “Be still,” they say firmly, and I obey. They pull the hood over my head, carefully brushing my hair out of my eyes as they adjust it into place. There are three straps to keep it in place, and they take each one carefully in their hands. I can feel the comforting grip of the leather pressing into my skull with each buckle. First, second, and then third, a strap under my chin to keep it firmly in place. I shake my head, feeling for any looseness, and find none. I bark happily. My hood doesn't feel like a mask, not to me. Rather, it feels like the realization of who I want to be, in this moment, with the person I most trust in the world. My owner looks down at me, smiles, and gives the top of my head rough, playful scratches all over. I whine, and nuzzle, and finally press my paws to the couch cushions in an effort to bring myself closer to them when my excitement is halted by a snap to the face.
“Nuh-uh,” my owner says, clicking their tongue. “No dogs on the furniture.” I rest my head on the cushion, now both paws framing my pouting face. “But mayyyybe” they draw out the words, and I can hear their voice pitch up, and my whole body starts to wag in excitement as they say, “you can earn it.”
There's a rush of emotions that hit me all at once, even as my body has already crouched down and my voice whines happily at the idea of being my owner's good boy, very very good boy. One, of course, is excitement: I'm excited to see what sort of tricks or games I can prove myself in to earn the elusive couch time. There's also a small, quiet, nagging feeling of guilt, echoes of a human brain still trying to assert itself. I have so much to do, I can’t afford to just spend an evening–
“Eyes on me” my owner’s voice jolts me, and my attention is immediately drawn back to their face. “Good. Listen carefully.” I stay still, frozen, watching intently with as much focus as my doggy self can muster. No distractions, just them. “We’ll start slow, with ones we’ve practiced a lot, okay? Bark if you understand.”
I yip, wiggling my whole body for just a moment before pressing my butt firmly to the ground.
“Paw,” my owner states, and I oblige, putting my leather mitt into their hand. Then, I switch to the other, and am rewarded with a sliver of something crunchy and green that I greedily chomp with an open mouth. Cucumber, the name hits me as the water drips down my chin.
“Messy,” my owner tuts, and wipes the droplets away with the sleeve of their shirt. “Okay, now, sit pretty.”
I scoot back from the couch, and hold my paws in front of myself as I balance on bent knees.
“Hold it.” They stand up and circle me, scrutinizing my posture and pressing their shoes in where my knees are off-center. I know that because of my injury I tend to favor one side, especially in situations that require balance, but they make no mention of it other than the gentle correction. That’s one misstep they know I can’t help. When satisfied with my posture, my owner pulls another small piece of cucumber from a small plastic bag in their pocket, and holds it in front of my face. “Now, wait.” Gingerly, they place it right on the tip of my nose. I watch it intently, quivering with the effort to keep it in place. I want to be good, I want to earn this treat, I want to be called a good boy. All of these thoughts repeat over and over until a whine billows in my throat, and then I hear their excited voice of praise: “Good boy, well done!” They grab the cucumber on my nose and lay it flat on their palm, where I eagerly grab it and begin crunching it. The snack is good, but it's their words I’m mostly after.
We do a few more tricks, and just as they promised, the tricks get progressively more difficult. Roll over always takes me a few tries to get it smooth, but once I do, I am well-rewarded with a whole strawberry. We also do some heel practices, using my short, black-leather leash held taut at my owner’s side. We cross the living room, loop the bedroom, and even circle back into the kitchen before I receive my reward of a handful of crisp green grapes. Lastly, we play a few rounds of fetch, retrieving a small stuffed tiger that my owner tosses across the room. When I start to pant, they have me lay down on the cool kitchen floor while they fill up my bowl with some water.
Drinking water from my bowl has always been a bit of trial and error, but after this long, I can do it with ease. I dunk my full nose in the bowl and eagerly slurp up the water, pausing only to breathe between gulps. When I’m done, I’m still panting, but I lay my head down on the floor and let my body relax. On their way back to the couch, my owner pets me again, and then I hear the theme of the TV show switch back on. Part of me wants to walk over, but the other, exhausted part of me wants to stay right here, and that is the part that wins over. Over the course of the show, my owner stands up, walks around a bit, goes back into the bedroom, and then sits back on the couch. Only when they whistle me over do I, begrudgingly, oblige. My arms and legs feel noodly from the exertion, but I still pad over and sit at attention.
“Is Puppy feeling good? Go ahead and bark for me if you’re feeling good.”
I let out a low, but excited awruff, and stomp my paws for emphasis.
“Good boy!” My owner leans over and pets me, and I can feel the texture of thin nitrile on their hands. I nose at the gloves for emphasis before they pull away. “Such a smart dog, you noticed I was wearing gloves didn’t you?” I bark again, waiting patiently for an explanation.
“Well, you did so well for me, and I did promise you could get on the couch if you earned it,” they start patting the couch cushion next to them, with a towel laid over their lap. “Come on, boy, come up.”
I get to be on the couch! I get to be on the couch with my owner! I can hardly believe it. I start barking and yipping, and do a circle before I finally climb onto the couch, digging my leather paws to give me some leverage on the cushy fabric. I shove my face right against my owner’s, nuzzling my leather snout into their chin and hear the musical sound of their laughter in return. I press my face in more, barking happily in tune with their giggles. The sound makes my heart feel so light, and is as welcome as any praise or belly rub.
“Okay, okay, easy boy,” they start to say, and even though the energy of a puppy courses through every muscle of my body, I pull myself back and hold myself firm, sitting next to them and listening intently. “I wanted to reward you with something else, too, for being such a good boy.” I start to wiggle just a bit. I’m being rewarded again? For being so good? With what?
They reach behind themself and present to me my tail plug: a long, thin, black rubber tail attached to a flared base and a solid, circular stump. The tail end wags in time to every small motion, but the plug is solid, sturdy, with a heavy weight to it and a thick size to keep it firmly in place. With how busy I’ve been, and the prep work that goes into anal, I haven't had the chance to enjoy it as of late. But any worry about time is easily brushed away by my owner’s gentle and soft, reassuring voice.
“My poor puppy has spent all evening without his tail. Does Puppy want his tail? Bark twice if you want me to work you open and give it to you.” It takes only a moment of decision, imagining the fullness of that base inside me and the deep desire it stirs, before I bark twice, in quick succession. “Good boy, very good boy.”
My owner directs me to face away from them. They unbutton my jeans, and I can feel myself heat from the embarrassment of still wearing my work clothes. They say nothing, only slip them off my body to fold them neatly in a pile on the coffee table. Then, they press, gently, down on my back, urging me to arch myself up so that my ass is in full view. I hear the squeeze of the lube on their hands before I feel their cool touch begin to spread my cheeks.
My owner starts slowly, gentle with me and my poor neglected hole. I shiver at their first touch, circling the muscle around my ass and starting with just the tip of one finger, stretching as they move further and further in. They pull out briefly, and I hear another squirt of lube before they plunge their finger back in me, curling it just so slightly that I let out a gasp that becomes a moan. When they hear my voice, my owner praises me, complimenting every noise that I make, which only makes me whine and moan louder. A soft voice in my brain tries to tell me to be quiet, to settle down, to make myself small and ashamed for how I’m acting, but before it can grow, my owner fits a second finger in me and I howl with delight. It doesn’t take long for a third finger to join, and I feel full and tight and drunk on the size stuffed into me. I’m a whimpering, whining mess: a once proud pup now reduced to barking and moaning with pleasure. A slick popping noise of lube from skin explains in the absence I feel in my ass, but before I can protest much, I feel the hard silicone of my tail begin to press into me.
And, fuck, even with my owner’s three fingers in me, the tail feel like a massive stretch. Has it always been this big? I whimper, moan, bark, and howl, but my owner knows that none of these noises are cues to stop. They continue, pressing the well-lubed base against my hole, but also reminding me to relax and breathe even through my yips of pleasure. Once it's in, I let out a long, deep moan as it sinks into place, a sense of fullness settling into my stomach and stoking a need between my legs. The gentle shifting of my body translates into a springy wag of my tail, and I hear the snap of my owner’s gloves being removed before I can feel their hand on my skin once more.
“You did so well my puppy, so good for me,” my owner says, and I can only give a contented, happy huff in response. “Do you feel so full for me Puppy? Do you like your tail?” I let out a low, long howl, panting at the end with the effort of being stuffed. I feel their nail scratch beneath my shirt and across my back, and I whimper with delight. I’m still laying, wagging my tail in their lap, when I feel their hand slip between my thighs. They spread the lips and begin stroking my already hard dick, and I visibly shudder into their grasp.
This time, their touch isn’t gentle. Firmly grasping and stroking the length of my elongated clit, I can feel the blood rushing through my body and engorging it further, coated in already leaky and wet cum. They pinch, and the suddenness of pain amidst the pleasure of being jacked off with my ass full scrambles my already foggy dog brain. I don’t know whether to whine or to yelp, so I produce a garbled sound somewhere between the two, and it makes my owner laugh with delight. They pinch again, harder, dragging the pads of their fingers up and down my dick while all I can do is quiver and stomp my paws. My howls of protest are weak against their force, but soon enough they’re back to stroking me. Then, with a curled finger, they tease my entrance and despite my typical indifference to being fucked there, I can’t help but whine and beg to be full of even more. More, and more, I want to be full of them in every one of my holes, and with enough pleading, they fit three fingers in me with no prep work.
With my ass stuffed with my plug and my cunt full of their fingers, it takes no more than a few solid strokes of my dick before I am close to finishing, but I’m a good boy and know what I need to do.
“Please,” my voice is raspy from my barks and howls, but these are the only words I’m ever allowed to speak as their dog. “Please, please, please, can I finish?”
I feel my owner shift themself just slightly, pondering the request as I can sense myself closer and closer to climax. If they wait too long to answer, it’ll be ruined–I’m well trained, and it never feels as good unless it's allowed.
“Of course, Puppy, my good boy,” my owner finally says, their words like a dam breaking loose, and I’m gone. My whole body quivers and shakes, both holes pulsating as my vision turns white and the only sound I can hear are the repeated words of encouragement from my owner. Through the wracking waves, I can hear their sweet words telling me how beautiful I look, how wonderful of a dog I am, and many more words of kindness that in any other state I would be stuttering to accept.
When I feel the orgasm begin to subside, I find myself flipped over and laying in my wife’s lap, their hand gently petting my hair. A soft, recently washed blanket has been draped over me. Even though my hole is empty, my plug is still in place, a comforting weight. I wiggle my body, and feel a burst of lightness that a tail wags in return. My paws are in my wife’s lap, and I nudge my still-hooded head into their chest.
“How are you doing, darling?” They ask me.
I bark at first, and then clear my throat now that my words don’t seem so far out of reach, “I’m good, very good. Thank you.”
My wife presses a kiss to the top of my forehead. “I’m glad. Do you want some help out of your gear?” They lift up my still-mitted hand for emphasis. I pause, and think about it for a moment before shaking my head.
“I want to be a dog some more, I think,” I manage, and then lay my head back down. “It feels nice. Can you pick something to watch?”
I hear a slight tune of amusement, maybe a little self-righteousness from my wife, but it's cute, endearing. “Of course, Puppy,” they respond.
I’m pretty sure at this moment there is nowhere more important for me to be than right here beside them, and their soft giggle is all it takes before I’m wagging my tail furiously in their lap. They, of course, laugh even more at that, and pet my hair. Before long, with some long-forgotten show playing on the screen, we devolve into tickle fights and rough housing. I know that without a doubt, right now, this is where I’m supposed to be.
