New Toys for Slutcunt

The first rays of dawn are barely touching the garden when the sliding door opens again.

Dorothy steps out barefoot, wearing only a long cream silk robe loosely tied at the waist. Her champagne-blonde hair is sleep-tousled, pearls still around her neck, the small silver key to your cage glinting between her breasts. She carries two large gift boxes wrapped in glossy pink paper with black satin ribbons—one heavy-looking, one lighter.

She walks to the kennel without hurry.

The black Lab and Rottweiler stir at her approach, tails thumping lazily against the concrete. You’re curled in the corner of the kennel—body aching, ass gaping and sore from hours of being knotted and filled, thighs crusted with dried dog cum, the inverted cage still leaking slow, pathetic strings onto the filthy blanket. Your face is tear-streaked, lips swollen from muffled cries, the taste of their seed still thick on your tongue.

Dorothy unlocks the padlock.

Opens the gate.

“Out, Slutcunt.”

You crawl forward on trembling limbs—knees raw from the concrete, plug long since removed but your hole still loose and twitching, dripping a thin trail of leftover cum mixed with your own pre-cum.

She clips the pink leash to your collar.

Tugs you to kneel in the dewy grass in front of her.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, cupping your chin and tilting your smeared face up to the light. “Bred all night like a proper bitch. Mommy’s dogs are very satisfied. But you’re still such a messy little thing.”

She sets the heavier box down first.

Opens it.

Inside lies a heavy leather muzzle-harness—bubblegum pink, lined with soft black suede on the inside, reinforced with silver studs that catch the morning sun like tiny knives. Thick straps crisscross where cheeks and jaw meet, a wide collar integrated into the design. The most striking feature is the built-in ring gag: a thick, polished chrome O-ring bolted directly into the muzzle, forcing your mouth into a permanent, obscene “O”. Your tongue will loll out helplessly, drool running in constant streams, unable to close or swallow properly.

Dorothy lifts it.

“Open wider, Slutcunt.”

You part your lips as far as you can.

She fits the muzzle over your face—leather cupping your cheeks, straps buckling tight at the back of your head and under your chin. The ring gag slides between your teeth; the cold metal forces your jaw apart, stretching your mouth into that humiliating circle. Your tongue immediately pushes forward—pink and wet—lolling out over the lower edge of the ring, already starting to drool in thick, shining strands that drip onto your chest.

She tightens the last buckle.

Steps back.

Admires.

“Now that’s better,” she purrs. “No more biting your lip to stay quiet. No more swallowing your whimpers. Just open, drooling, ready to lap at anything Mommy—or her dogs—put in front of you.”

Drool pours from your ****-open mouth in steady rivulets, soaking the front of your sheer baby-doll, running down your stomach to mix with the drying cum on your thighs.

She opens the second box.

Inside: a pair of custom leather “puppy boots”—also pink, glossy patent finish, lined with soft padding. Each boot is shaped at the base like a large dog’s paw—rounded pad, four rounded “toes” with silver claw accents. Thick leather cuffs buckle around your calves and thighs, with sturdy metal D-rings sewn in. The design forces your feet to fold back against your calves, knees bent and locked in place so you can only move on all fours—permanently hobbled into a crawling, knee-walking position. No standing. No running. Just Slutcunt on her knees like a proper bitch.

Dorothy kneels in the grass.

Lifts your right leg first.

Slides the boot over your foot, folding it back until the sole of your foot presses against your calf. She buckles the straps—tight, unyielding—then does the same to the left.

When both are secured she clips short chains between the thigh cuffs and the paw bases—ensuring you can’t straighten your legs even if you try.

“Stand—well, try,” she says with a soft laugh.

You attempt to rise.

Your legs won’t extend. The boots lock you in permanent crawl position—knees on the ground, ass up, back arched, drool pouring from the ring gag in thick strings.

She clips the leash again.

Tugs.

“Walk, Slutcunt. Show Mommy how pretty her new bitch looks.”

You crawl—awkward at first, the paw-shaped bases slapping softly against the grass, silver claws glinting. The heavy muzzle keeps your head low, tongue lolling helplessly, drool trailing behind you like a silver leash of its own. The inverted cage swings with every movement, catheter dripping faster from the humiliation, leaving wet spots in the dew.

Dorothy walks you once around the garden—slow circles past the pool, past the flower beds, past the kennel where the dogs watch with lazy interest.

When she’s satisfied she stops.

Crouches in front of you.

Lifts your chin with one finger—the ring gag forcing your mouth into that permanent, drooling “O”.

“From now on,” she whispers, “this is how you move. On your knees. Tongue out. Drooling. Paw boots slapping. Cage leaking. You don’t walk like a person anymore. You crawl like the slutty little bitch you are.”

She pats your cheek—gentle, possessive.

“Now go back to your kennel, Slutcunt. Mommy’s going inside for coffee. You can wait out here until lunch—drooling, leaking, thinking about how good it felt to be bred all night.”

She leads you back to the kennel.

Pushes you inside.

Locks the gate.

Walks away—robe swaying, hips rolling—leaving you curled on the filthy blanket, new muzzle drooling endlessly, paw boots locking your legs in crawl position, cage dripping, ass still loose from the dogs.

The sun climbs higher.

Drool pools beneath your chin.

Pre-cum drips from the catheter.

And you wait—muzzled, hobbled, named, owned—for whatever comes next.

What does lunch bring for Slutcunt today?

More “special” food from Mommy’s body?

A turn with the dogs again while she watches?

Or does she decide the new muzzle needs testing—with something long, thick, and very much not human?