Your first day as a dog

When you wake, you stretch and automatically go to stand up before you remember your situation. The leash is actually long enough to let you, and for a moment you're a naked, collared girl standing next to the post she's tied to. Sleeping on the sand wasn't that uncomfortable, though it was somewhat cold. This hasn't changed yet. Your nipples are hard from the pre-dawn chill. Your body is covered with bits of sand from where you lay, and it's gotten into your hair, which is now a somewhat tangled mess. You wonder what you look like.

You're also extremely horny. You don't know if it's a kinky kick from your situation, or if it's those hormones from the Obedience! collar starting to take effect. Whatever the reason, though, you can't help yourself: you sit down and spread your legs wide and start fingering yourself with abandon.

You've just about brought yourself to orgasm when you hear the cabin door open. "Ah, I see my little bitch is awake." Your father comes up to you. "Your food will be here soon, but I thought you might appreciate a little water."

Actually, now that he mentions it, you are quite thirsty. He sets a plain bowl down on the ground next to you. You go to pick it up and bring it to your mouth when you hear a sharp, "Uh-uh. Dogs don't use their hands." Oh. Right. So you assume the humiliating position of being on your hands and knees, your rear thrust into the air, and stick your face in the bowl. You lap awkwardly at the water, but it's cool and clean and refreshing enough that you don't care too much. You drink a good deal of it, and that's when you realize you have to go pee.

You look up at your father and whimper, then gesture to your pussy. You point to the cabin, where the toilet is. He gets your meaning and shakes his head. "I thought I made that clear last night. You're a dog now. Get that through your thick skull. Dogs don't use toilets. You know what they do."

You hang your head in defeat. So far you've borne most of this with a kind of ill humour. You've been hoping he would relent after seeing you like this. No luck, though. And you really do have to go--you can't hold it now.

Reluctantly, you crawl away from him and from your water bowl. You look over your shoulder. He's just watching you. You tilt your head towards the cabin and give him an annoyed look, but he doesn't move.

On your hands and knees, with your father looking on, you whimper and start urinating onto the cool, dry sand. A strong stream of pee comes out, creating a wet patch below you. Some of it splashes back up onto your thighs. You sigh slightly with relief, and soon the stream reduces to a trickle, and then a last few droplets. Done, you look back at your father for approval. He nods his head. You go to use your hands--paws--like scoops and cover up the patch of sand--but then you realize that'd be more in keeping with a cat than a dog. A dog pees to mark her territory. She doesn't care who sees or sniffs it. So you stop, and instead you turn around and crawl back over to where your father is standing.

He bends over and pets you. It's not like the brief pat he rewarded you with yesterday--it's a long, slow caress of your hair that moves down your neck and shoulders and along your back. He repeats this several times, eventually focusing more on your ass. In this position, the curve of your ass is quite prominent, and he runs his hands around it, licking his lips slightly. You wonder how long your father has wanted to do this.

"Good girl," he says. "We're off to a very good start."

He pets you for another few minutes and then returns back to the cabin, presumably for his own breakfast. Left to your own devices, you drink some more water and look out at the calm ocean. Eventually you decide that you might as well get the rest of your bodily functions out of the way before he can come back. It's gross, but you can't avoid it. You return to the spot you've marked as your toilet, and you squat to take a shit.

You don't really want to think about the details, or about how you'll clean yourself afterwards. Indeed, you can't clean yourself--either your father or Christina will have that pleasure.

A quad arrives with a small trailer in tow. The driver parks just outside the cabin, but at the other side of the house, so you can't see who it is until he comes around to the entrance. Oh. It's Michael.

He goes to knock on the door but then sees you and stops abruptly. Then he comes over. "{You}?"

You don't know what else to do: you give him a doggy bark.

Michael raises his eyebrows. "Well, I never ... Mr. Cartwright said he was going to teach you a lesson for being a bitch, but I must admit ... he's quite thorough about it." Judging from his tone, your father wasn't overly harsh on the man after discovering him watching you and Christina yesterday.

He knocks on the door. Your father opens it. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Bailey. You have my delivery?"

"Yes, sir. Food, clothes, and other items. All on the trailer here."

"Good, let's get it out."

Michael and your father unload a few things. One is a bowl with your name on it, along with a case of food. "Don't worry," Michael says when your father is out of earshot. "It's not actually dogfood. It's got all the nutrients that humans need--and I'm even told it doesn't taste bad. It was designed for a couple of different applications, including ... um ... well, the type of roleplay you're doing now."

Whatever. Your stomach growls at the prospect of eating anything.

They also take out a bundle of clothes, which you know is for Christina. Sure enough, she soon comes out dressed in her new assistant's uniform, modified for your tropical setting: a light, see-through cotton blouse over a plain green bikini top, and a long, flowery skirt with matching pump sandals. You're jealous for a moment, envious that she's wearing anything at all.

Finally there are a few other items for you: an adjustable leash, presumably for your walks; a bed, which you hope is so you can sleep inside; and some grooming equipment. There's a smaller bag, which your father brings over to you immediately.

"Here we are," he says. "Give me your hands." He takes out a pair of gloves. They're fingerless, so you can still touch and feel things, but the finger parts, as well as the thumb, have been fused together. He puts them on you: goodbye, opposable thumbs. You're now dependent on others to do the simplest of tasks.

Michael leaves, and your father puts out a can of food for you. After you've eaten, Christina gets the job of cleaning you up. She wipes your face and your ass, then brushes your hair. At least she's more tender about it than your father would have been, and she talks to you. She doesn't say anything, but you can smell sex on her.

"I've tried to get as much sand out of your pussy as I can," she says, "but Kenneth won't let me bathe you yet. I suppose he's right--you'll get even dirtier as the day goes on. He has to go back up to the lab, and I'm going with him, but he says he'll take you for a walk along the beach first." Ah. So it's "Kenneth" now, not "master." Interesting.

For once in his life, your father makes good on a promise to spend time with you. Now dressed in shorts and a light T-shirt, he detaches the leash from your collar, replacing it with the more flexible one. "Let's go," he says.

It's undeniably weird, being walked like a dog along the beach. Crawling with your "paws" is an odd sensation, but mostly you just feel weird letting your dad see your ass jiggle as you move forward. You can't help it though: with each motion you make, you feel yourself unconsciously shift your weight from one hip to the next, causing your butt to roll left or right, compensating like ballast. But your father doesn't say anything, and you enjoy blissful, companionable silence.

He stops you after you're about ten minutes away from the cabin. He picks up a rather long stick, hefting it. He unclips your leash, then he hurls the stick about twenty metres away.

You look at wear the stick landed, then you look at him. He has to be fucking joking.

"Fetch, bitch," he says. Nope, not joking. You consider disobeying, but what would the point in that be?

Reluctantly you begin to make your way towards the stick. When you reach it, you remember you can't just pick it up: you have to stick your face down to the sand and try to grip it in your mouth. Fortunately, your father chose an appropriate stick for your task: it's light enough for you to carry and not too thick for you to have a tough time getting your teeth around it. You bring it back to him in your mouth, leaning back on your butt and presenting it to him eagerly.

He takes it from your mouth and rewards you with a pat on the head. "Good dog!" He tosses it again.

You fetch it again, return it, and get rewarded. He tosses it another time, slightly farther. You give a slight bark now. As you move to get the stick, you feel yourself crawling faster, more eagerly. You need to get it and give it back to your father.

You reach it, retrieve it, return it. Each time your father throws the stick farther away, and you move slightly faster. You bark happily as he throws it and whimper appreciatively when he pets you. You can feel yourself breathing more heavily, your heart beating faster as you get a good workout. You don't know how long this goes on for, but you're loving it.

Eventually your father stops you. You're sad--you were just getting into it. But you're also happy, because you can see the broad smile on his face. For once, he's not angry or disappointed in you. You strain to remember the last time that had happened.

"Very well done, Ally. You'll make a fine dog yet. Now let's get back to the cabin. I'm afraid you'll have to indoors right now--I don't trust you not to wander off somewhere--but as a reward for being so good, I'll put a DVD on before we go."

He's true to his word, and you spend the day inside, staring alternately at the laptop screen or out the window. You can't work the door in your present state. You get a petty **** by lying on the couch--it's not like he can know--and you do your best to stand and walk like a human being. But without hands, there's little point. You can't even work the keyboard properly; your fingers keep hitting multiple buttons. You can just barely use the trackpad.

One thing your new paws don't stop you from doing, however, is masturbating. And a good thing too. Even after your morning session you're still horny: all that fetch and the thoughts of your father lusting after your naked body have really turned you on. With nothing else to do, you spend most of the day touching yourself.

The day goes by excruciatingly slowly. By the time Christina and your father return, you're bored out of your mind. You hear them approaching, and you position yourself by the door. Getting back into character, you start barking with what you hope is excitement as they come in.

"Looks like someone is happy to see us," Christina says. She crouches down on her heels and rubs you under the chin. "Who's been a good girl? Who's a good girl?" Is she a bit different? Something about her makeup--or her hairstyle? Yes, she has more curls than before, and she's definitely wearing more makeup.

Your father is more reserved. He strolls around the room, as if inspecting it. The doors to both bedrooms remain closed--you couldn't have gotten in there had you tried, and you hadn't. He nods, satisfied. "Looks like our puppy was a good girl all right. I think she deserves a reward."

Your pussy tingles slightly at the idea.