THE DOGS
My Me Your
HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT FOUR: Young men are sometimes nervous and unsettled about their girls orgasming. And that’s fair. A virus-mediated orgasm is very intense, noisy, messy, powerful, and overwhelming. It leaves the girl spasming and incoherent, and stupid, for some time afterwards.
It can be tempting to avoid the cleanup and noises and just deny a girl sexual pleasure.
This is a mistake.
Girls need to cum. Regularly and powerfully. The Submission virus does not go away because the girl is getting no sexual release. It will build up, hungering for and desperate for obedience.
A pent-up, frustrated girl will orgasm from a single grabbed ass. It is not healthy.
Your girl should be getting sustained, regular sexual pleasure, from you. Don’t be scared of her orgasm. Make her cum. And it is fine to make her clean up her own juices.
They stopped at her house first. He came inside with her, just for a moment. Walked her in, because it wasn’t safe, a girl ever being alone. He took a single step inside of her room, with his big Owen body, and then backed out.
Which meant her room felt—different.
Cass moved through it slowly, deliberately. It took her a minute to recognize what the change was, but all her painstaking training wasn’t for nothing. The room had had Owen inside of it, and that had changed everything.
She really wanted something in her room to be interesting, to him. Something that made her more than A Favor. A Project.
But there was nothing. She’d dropped the wall posters, thrown away the unapproved books with male characters speaking in imperatives. No more Wuthering Heights, no Jane Austen, no Zadie Smith, no Jennifer Egan, all of them now dangerous to girls. There were thrillers out there that, it was whispered, could kill a girl. Vividly drawn male characters who told the female lead, through well-described scenes with captivating dialogue, to die, so they would. That was the order.
Her shelves now held white binders with mindfulness exercises, personhood journals, bored doodles from many empty days. None of her exercises were proving much worth in the presence of a man. She was supposed to close her eyes and tune out the world, and its men, but that was hard to do when she could hear him breathing, smell him, feel his eyes on her hips, her ass, her chest.
She hadn’t even cleaned. Did that make her more interesting? At least she could be dirty. Dirty was human—her unmade bedspread, her hamper full of unwashed clothes. Maybe he’d be interested to know that she’d grown yet another cup size, and that her underpants were all damp, because of him.
Owen hadn’t even said anything. Just entered, for a moment, glanced at the workbooks and beige clutter and oatmeal-colored sheets, and walked out again. Left her to pack for an overnight.
Desperate, chest tight, Cass ran down to the basement, and unearthed her flute from her High School band days. She’d thrown it there after the debacle that was grad night, and hadn’t looked at it since. The spit valve was probably encrusted over. But it was something. Something of interest.
It occurred to her, walking to his car, yet again, that she had lost the plot. This was not, building a healthy distant partnership. This was, get Owen to like you. Want you. Need you. It was all blurring together.
She herself was blurring together, becoming partly hers, mostly his...
“Sorry, sorry, for the wait,” she mumbled, getting back in his warm, comforting car. She felt so much better in his car. “I should’ve made you a drink or something. I mean. I don’t know. What’s a non-submissive drink I could make you? Water? Do you want some water?”
“Oh, it took you awhile to pack for your no-notice enforced sleepover?” Owen said. “Its fine. Really. Jules sent me the mixtape for his wedding, so I’ve been listening to that. It’s really, really, really... french.”
“To... Bella?” A stupid comment, but maybe that was good? Stupid girl was something more than just “girl”. Cass reprimanded herself. She needed to stop caring what he thought. As impossible as it was. “They’re getting MARRIED? She never said anything!”
“Yeah. This weekend. I don’t think we were originally invited. I guess we made a good couple impression, since we got the last minute evite. It’s going to be really something. Her family is apparently like a clan of motorcycle toughs, and his family is, you know. French. So we’re going. Sorry—no commands—would you—”
“Too late,” Cass said. “I’m commanded. Wedding ahoy.” She gave him a mock salute. Cass barely recalled what clothes she’d thrown in the bag, except that—they were okay, weren’t they? “What should I wear?”
Owen gave her an incredulous look that said: do you WANT me to give more orders? “Wedding clothes? C’mon, Cass. Don’t ASK me for commands. Ah, fuck. That’s a command too. I’m failing. We should just zip our lips. Can you tell when I’m commanding you? Even if its like a mistake?”
Each one felt like a gift, a warm kiss on the lips. No matter how thoughtless or unintentional they were.
“Cassbot feels them all,” Cass said. “I’m loading them in my girl processing unit.”
“Cy says not to feel bad about it. Men just give orders. He says that where you really screw up is putting orders to fix orders to fix orders. He says just pat the girl on the head every so often and tell her she’s a good girl, that fixes almost everything. What do you think?”
Cass sighed. She wanted to put her head on this man, and let him do the thinking. She wanted... what? It was exhausting to try and think...
“I think that sounds really, really, really nice,” she said. “Do you want to watch a movie, maybe? I do like movies. The five or six I can still watch. That’s an interesting fact about me.”
Owen’s house was dark and old. It had the dingey, grimey look that meant lack of women. Probably the only house on the street, Cass thought, that wasn’t scrubbed daily, that had the possibility of mold.
“I like your house,” Cass said. It had Owen in it. She tried to bite her tongue, literally. She hadn’t expected submission to arrive so.. gushy. So lovey-dopey-dovey. It was supposed to feel like puppetry, not like falling for...
She forced herself not to think it.
“Thanks. You’re lying, right? It’s... dirty?” Owen said. “You never think of it until a guest arrives.”
“I’m more property than guest, really,” Cass said. “It’s more like you brought something back from the grocery store. I’m like, the milk. So I wouldn’t worry about the dust.” She was doing it again, talking about the virus over and over. Bad Cass, she told herself. Bad girl.
Owen didn’t respond to that right away. “I know it’s good we’re making jokes about it and all,” he said, eventually. “It’s just—odd. I really own you, don’t I? I own you. You’re my property.” He fixed his eyes on her, from his too-tall height, and she walked into his house. Where he kept his things.
He’d said it, albeit neutrally. She was his property.
She was owned.
They hadn’t even made it into the living room. Cass stood still. It was the only response she could think of. Something about entering his house had done it, crossing that threshold into his actual life. That plus the wondering statement, that she was his. It was enough.
She felt as vulnerable as it was possible to feel.
Stripping naked would’ve made no difference. For the first time he was giving her the look over, the real one, the one she’d seen so many men do on a routine basis. Assessment. Her jawline, her bust, her fingers and toes. She didn’t dare to even swallow. Even her virus-riddled body was too tense to reward her, for attracting this kind of intense male attention.
Owen put his hand out and held it underneath her trembling neck. It was possessive in a way Cass wasn’t prepared for. Branding her would’ve been less invasive. Stripping and spanking her. He kept his eyes on her neck, she noticed. It was a gesture that masters made. It told her that she didn’t have personal space. Whatever she had, she was renting.
The moment ed. Owen seemed to notice his own hand. He pulled it behind his back. “Super sorry,” the band geek said. “It’s the... house. Weird to have a girl in it.”
“Yeah... yeah,” Cass said. “Pretend I flinched and slapped you, alright? That’s the... right response. That’s what I should be doing. I’ve been in training. I did the appropriate thing and gave you a smack.” I didn’t stand there, trembling, she thought. I didn’t wait for more. I didn’t submit. Lets pretend I didn’t submit.
Owen raised his hand and smacked himself across the chops. “Ow,” he reported. “I made it hurt.”
Cass laughed, shaky. She was—seeing differently. Thoroughly. Completely. Already she’d memorized the layout of the kitchen, so she’d know where the pots and pans were. The spoons, in case Owen needed a spoon. “I feel... really weird,” she confessed. “Like, hyper-aware. It’s a whole thing. I read about it but—wow.”
I’m fitting myself into your life, she thought. She couldn’t even close her eyes. This was Owen’s life, and she was part of it. She had to force down the urge to clean his kitchen. There’d been not enough time to prepare herself for this. She’d watched videos about the man’s space, entering it without becoming part of it. The virus had slid all that knowledge into the garbage. Or perhaps it was always a waste of time...
“Oh. Oh!” Owen said, and snapped his fingers. “I read about that. Like, you’re drinking me in, that whole thing? Man, I should’ve cleaned up. I honestly never thought of it. Shoot. You’re learning that your, um, owner lives in a dank house with dirty towels. This is a bad first impression.”
Belatedly a flood of endorphins soaked her, too much and too fast. At the same time details poured in—this is where Owen put his car keys. He grinded his own coffee. This was the single picture of his Mom, off to the side, but not forgotten. This was what Owen smelled like over time.
The dogs circled the two of them, puzzled. Why were the two humans just standing in the foyer, perfectly still?
It was too much for Cass. She wobbled, and that was enough warning for Owen to catch her. He’d learned that she fell over all the time. She held on to him tightly. His hand dug into her butt again.
“Does this take long? I really don’t think there’s that much to learn,” Owen said. “I do band practice and I live with my Dad. I’m taking A classes.”
Her breasts pressed up against his chest. This close she could tell how much taller he was than her. Six, maybe seven inches. Her head thudded against his heart. It was beating hard, at least. She was at least already used to his scent.
“Sorry—sorry—” Cass tried to push off, and couldn’t. She was so weak now. The virus felt strongly that girls needed big tits and no muscle mass. “This is—I must look stupid. I’m imprinting. I completely forgot that this is a—a thing. It’s so ridiculous. Why do I need to what you wore, every day?”
“Shirt,” Owen said. “Often the same shirt.” He delivered her to the couch. He owned two video game consoles, she noticed. His graduation photo was framed and on the wall. Their TV was half the size of hers. “Doing okay?”
“I’ve been here for three minutes, and I nearly ed out,” Cass said. “Thanks for putting up with... this. Me. Hi, doggies.” They were glad to see her doing better, and were pressing wet noses into her legs. The dog snot was comforting. “Me and all the stuff in my head. Imprinting feels SO strange.”
“Yeah... all that,” Owen said. He sat his own lanky frame down. She couldn’t stop herself from eyefucking him. Mouth open, eyes wandering, soaking in him. Eyes probably cloudy with lust, if the virus had anything to say about it. Owen cleared his throat. They were six minutes into the sleepover. It was 7:12 p.m. “How about I make some pizzas?”
“Yeah, maybe some pizzas will help,” Cass said. Your owner likes pizzas, the virus reminded her. Don’t fucking forget.
“Are they all like this?” Owen said.
“The movies? This is the most interesting one. Because they’re girl ninjas and they fight each other, and that’s just, always kind of fun.”
Girl-Safe Movies were a recent development. All-female casts, guaranteed not to accidentally give your live-in obedient sex toy any ideas. It just wasn’t safe for women to watch movies with men in them, much less attractive Hollywood boys with deep, intense eyes. Orders delivered by Harrison Ford, on the screen, in the 1990s, had the same force and effect as recent ones. If Arnold told the viewer to get to the choppa, girls would. They would run to an airport, and try and climb a fence.
On screen the actresses were doing their best, slashing at each other gamely with ninja swords. But there was obviously a man in the room—their eyes kept losing intensity and focus, tracking some unseen male behind that camera that only they could see.
“Death is the reward for your treachery!” the first girl said.
“There’s not actually a lot of demand for these, because you can just tell me to watch the wall and I’ll have fun doing it,” Cass said. “Not that you are... going to do that.”
“Yeah, no,” Owen shifted in his chair. “Actually our homework talked about that. It’s my responsibility to give you enrichment activities. If I gave you the big orders. Which I’m not planning on doing.”
They were on opposite couches. Cass had tried to force herself to act naturally, or at least not like a dainty and submissive female, and was having trouble. She sat with her back straight, facing Owen. The two canines also had one eye on him at all times. He was pater familias. He was master, her body insisted.
“No price is too high for the ultimate scroll! In the ninja arts!” the second girl said.
A boom mic swung by in frame.
“Alright, that’s just lazy,” Owen said. “No lie, it’s a little depressing to watch this. You heard that they stopped giving Best Actress oscars this year? No point. What kind of enrichment activities would you even be into?”
“Yeah. Well. None of them. My Mom is into all of those... activities. Knitting, quilting, she does canning. That’s when she isn’t doing anal in the town square.”
“Alyssa,” Owen looked away from the worst fight choreography ever created. “Yeah. That must be... strange. I’ve seen your Mom... at... football games.”
“You can just say you’ve seen my Mom covered in jizz,” Cass said. Disgust with her Mom, her cum slut Mom, let her sit back, cross her arms. “All over her face and hair. I don’t love it. I know I’m a boring person but it’s like... she’s the alternative, that looks a lot like me, and I live with her, and I can see what she does, and I listen to her moaning sometimes because Dad had his football buddies over and they’re all lined up.”
“Do YOU think you’re boring?” Owen said. Cass flushed. THAT was the part he heard? The dogs shifted, and the ninja girls stabbed each other, simultaneously. It wasn’t clear if that had been the intent of the scene, but the director had them go with it.
“Ouch!” a ninja girl said.
“All I talk about is Virus and all I do is Virus and Virus-adjacent,” Cass said. “It must be like having a Sex Ex class over to talk to. It must be like, girl wikipedia.”
“Cass,” Owen said. He sat up as well for this one. Despite being stabbed the actresses closed in for a heartfelt kiss. “Listen. Don’t worry about it. It’s not your problem to be, you know, interesting. I mean, I own you. I can do whatever I want with you, right? And you’re really good at flute, right. You were section leader.”
“Oh,” Cass said. And then it sunk in, everything he’d said. All those nice things. Her body was already exhausted from learning everything about this man. “Ohhh.”
She was so horny for Owen.
She was yearning to give herself to him. She had no way to fight back. A compliment, and even better, because it was a lie. Was she even supposed to fight? It didn’t matter, the red-hot pop of endorphins bubbled in her blood. Her thighs scooched open. She wore her regular grey sweats, but Owen’s eyes still drooped down, to her most interesting area. Cass let the pleasure of it sing in her, swirling on her skin.
Her stomach saved her from a small, embarrassing orgasm. Cass burped. The dogs stood up, confused.
“Sorry,” Cass said. She grasped on to the humiliation. Yes. “I ate an entire pizza. My body is trying to turn into Alyssa 2.0, tits and all. You should see how big they’re getting already. My nipples are like dinner plates.” No, she had to stop saying stuff like that. All her laconic, sarcastic remarks kept coming out flirty. “You have to be careful with the compliments, they really... do a number on me.”
“Why?” Owen said. He was leaning forward in his chair now, intent, on her, even though the lady ninjas were getting hot and heavy in the scene. The camera was getting closer and closer. It wasn’t clear if they were still stabbed. “I can’t even say nice things? Cy said, don’t try to be a hero all the time. Enjoy yourself a little. Take what you’ve earned. Be a man. He said, you’re not helping your girl by treating her like a fragile vase. Do things to her. With her. Sorry. But what do you think? I have to be able to say like, nice butt, you know?”
“You do have to be a man,” Cass echoed. She nodded. Yes, he was a man. She could reward him in so many ways. They flipped through her head. From the time she woke up until the time she went to bed she could do hundreds of things he would enjoy. The sight, scent, and feel of her. She could clean his house and lick his cock.
One of the dogs barked. Perhaps because the movie was over. The credits were rolling—dozens of men, dozens of male names. Director, producer, lighting and FX...
Owen watched her battle the urge to fall onto her knees.
She wanted to suck his cock.
His eyes traced her neck.
Owen sat back. “So I thought we’d play some music! I saw you brought your flute. That’ll be fun. I’ll get everything set up.”
“I—I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick,” Cass said. She had to—calm down. Be less fuckable. She checked the time. It was 8:38. Jesus Wept.
There was no way around it. She had to please him with her body. He was being SO nice, when she knew she was boring and stupid and unsexy. Her sweats were damp and the crotch especially so. They were not her Special Rebel Clothes when she had an obvious wet pussy patch staring Owen in the face.
“Unghhhh,” Cass whined, to herself. This was so HARD. She wasn’t centered. If she tried, really hard, she could keep the image of herself blowing Owen from playing on repeat in her head. Her body trembled with the effort. He deserves it, the virus shouted, angry, and it was so right. So, so right.
The bathroom was a boy bathroom and that was terrible. There was a shock of mildew across the entrance, like a processional arch. Two toothbrushes stood valiantly against a sea of grime. Even the mirror was covered with a white patina of Colgate. From the many layers, it had to date all the way back to when Owen’s Mom died.
“Do NOT get big-time enslaved,” Cass said, pointing at herself in the mirror. “Don’t do it. Don’t! Friends, technically property for legal reasons, and he can touch your butt! And maybe your tits! And finger you a little. Oh, DAMN it.”
She’d grabbed clothes in a tizzy and the Virus had taken advantage. Cass pulled them out, dismayed. Tight and hot. Jean shorts and a top that was definitely going to expose her navel. The jean shorts were especially insidious. They’d been comfy and fun when she’d bought them. But there was much more woman to her now. Cass had to struggle her way into them, ass and hips now especially prominent. She was getting alarmingly curvy. Alyssa’s genes in jeans.
“No more pizzas,” she swore. “Pizzas are the gateway to a lifetime of sexual slavery.” It had to stop. She could not afford to look overwhelmingly female, grabbable and fuckable. She needed to be slender and sad-eyed. No one would believe a top-heavy curvy girl was fighting her own obedience.
The top hung off the swell of her tits and barely made it to her midsection. Cass tried to smooth it down, without success.
“Fuck,” she told the encrusted mirror. “Fuck!”
She was getting hotter. It was bad news. The girl in the mirror was such a GIRL. Angel bow lips, shockingly black hair that framed her face, wide, surprised eyes. And if she ran her hands down her side, they’d go on a journey. She was so full of curves, now. She was grabbable and strokable. Her skin felt soft, and pliable, even to her. It thrummed with nerves, excited for its debut.
And not just hotter. She was turning into her Mom. It wasn’t too much of a surprise. The virus could play with every part of a girl now. Pets tended to resemble their owners, and why not their owner’s desires?
Were her LIPS getting fuller? Cass pooched them out to see. They felt thicker. She just felt overall heavier. She was being rebuilt to please men—no. Please Owen, make herself a better object to look at. Plump tits that were fun to see from every angle, thighs that rubbed together. It pleased her that he’d fed her. It made her really happy.
It had felt good to scarf down his half-burned supermarket pizza.
Cass slammed her hand into the mirror, and then regretted it. She couldn’t even do that. What if she broke Owen’s mirror? Instead she grabbed a washcloth and rubbed at the toothpaste tiling, and then wet it down and scrubbed some more.
Soon it was nice and clean.
She’d cleaned for Owen.
Her pussy was steaming, and her tits were so hot. She’d cleaned for him, she’d finally done something for him, her blood was sludgy with happy hormones. It felt so good...
Upset and horny, she whirled around in the little grungy bathroom. There was much to clean. The shower—there was a huge soap deposit just below the tap. Cass turned on the hot water, as hot as it would go. Not only was she getting inevitably sexier, filling in her skirts and shirts, it was getting tougher to move like a person, instead of a sex object. She felt an urge to bend at the waist, to walk with one foot in front of the other. There was so much sway in her hips. The soap dissolved under her assault, and it felt good. Gratifying. There was so much to clean. She needed to clean for Owen.
The sink.
Cass tried to center herself, rubbing anxiously at limescale and other brown stains. She’d watched videos about this. Changes to her body were to be expected. They couldn’t be fought, so she shouldn’t. The important bits were inside, the tedious, self-absorbed person that she was. The burden that Owen had to bear, fighting his own needs while she ate his food and ruined his couch with her big fat ass. Making him watch boring movies.
The sink was sparkling before long. Cass rinsed the washcloth and watched four motherless years drain out. The mirror reflected a hot girl with scared, big eyes, and dark, wavy hair. Had it grown a lot, in the past few weeks? Her Mom had long hair. Cass had usually cut it her hair herself, with scissors, giving herself a rough shoulder-length cut, to be pinned back in a ponytail. She hadn’t put it up since she’d met Owen. Owen, who wasn’t even allowed to touch her, despite how much her body was calling to him, how luscious she was getting, how insipid she was...
The least she could do was clean his toilet.
With your tongue, you worthless SLUT, the virus told her, seething
It was unpleasant to look at, even as toilets went. Cass approached it, berating herself. She needed to be better, for Owen. She could be an interesting princess in a tower, at least. She would play the flute for him. Cook for him. Fix him drinks. Walk the dogs. Play with them. Roll over and beg to have her tummy scritched, to fetch for him, to drink out of a dog bowl—
Cass stopped. A tiny piece of her found its way through and said—you don’t need to clean old pee off his potty. You’re not actually his whimpering slave, yet.
And then, being honest: so far.
She had her ass strategically facing the door, in case he burst in. She was panting. And her pussy was soaked. She swam in fantasies, putting her new knowledge of his house to use. Her getting fucked in the shower, cleaning every inch of him with every part of her. If she could get a single drop of his cum on her again, she’d be so happy.
Cass forced herself to put the washcloth down. She turned off the tap. The toilet was untouched. But the rest of the bathroom was sparkling.
Cass put her forehead on the potty.
She was too horny and endorphin-giggling to be sad, but a trace of resignation bled through.
She wasn’t going to be able to fight this forever. She was going to lose. It was going to feel so incredible, when she lost.
Cass picked her head up and wiped her forehead.
It didn’t have to be TODAY, she told herself.
She called out for her—not owner. Not master. Not enslaver. For now.
“Owen?” he didn’t respond.
And he wasn’t in the living room, where she’d left him. She was alone in his house. No, the dogs were still there. They were quiet, sleeping nervously. “Owen...?”
It wasn’t that big of a house. His door had to be the one with a poster of a football player on it. Was he into football? She had no idea. She hadn’t even asked. She had to find him, and ask him. It made her feel bad that they were apart, and especially that she didn’t know where he was.
She was being a BAD GIRL, not knowing.
“Owen, are you...?”
She was in his room.
His room. His ROOM. The virus poured endorphins into her, pleased. She’d gotten, finally, to where she belonged. The foot of his bed, where she would kneel, until he needed her. His grubby carpet, covered with a grubby rug.
It was a bad idea to go into his room.
Owen slept on a low bed with a faded navy blue bedspread, and his pillow needed a wash. His desk was cluttered with musical notation, and the carpet had well-grooved tracks from bed to chair. The wall was papered over entirely with—posters of men. Men playing sports, mostly, caught in the full bloom of their masculinity, gleaming with sweat. They glowered at her, ready to command her. There were also posters of bands, men playing instruments. Classic rock, it looked like, possibly hand-me-down interests from his Dad. His dresser was heavy with band trophies, a complete forest of golden plastic, with the big ones at the back. Her pussy juiced at his accomplishments.
His scent mooted the question of whether she was making a mistake. It enveloped her. It was still a boy’s room, but a man’s scent, aggressive and commanding, with hints of oil and brass.
Cass needed more. She wanted to sniff his sheets, rub her face on his pillow. She needed to sleep in his bed, if he let her—even the foot of the bed would be fine. That would be close enough. In fact it would be better. The virus exulted in it, finding new things for her to notice, to soak in. His hamper needed to be cleaned out. She could vacuum.
She could sit under his desk and suck his dick while he worked.
Cass whimpered and whined, beaten down by it. Conscious, deliberate thought was such a challenge, when she was memorizing the titles on his bookshelf. Lots of musical theory, and more high-concept fiction than she would’ve expected. Not many nineteen year old boys read Ishiguro, she guessed. And—Sally Rooney was there? She’d gotten more popular post-Virus, as men struggled to spelunk the interiority of females, or at least see if any was still there. Her heart surged. This man. Her man. Not only was she unworthy, he was worthy. He deserved to erase and overwrite what she was.
She was nothing.
Nothing.
She loved everything about it, and her tits felt heavy and hot, and it was the hardest thing in the world to be anything but his girl. BAD GIRL, she told herself, unsure if this was rebellion, or not. She was a BAD GIRL, intruding in his room, and that was either rebellion or possibly slave behavior. Cass could feel lubricant leaking down both legs. Her nipples strained about, stiff and hard. She had all the IQ of his carpet, his hamper, his bed.
“Unnh. Unnh,” Cass managed to say. “Unnnnnh.” She staggered about, on loose legs. She needed to—go. The Virus was at work. It wanted her to be one of Owen’s objects. HIs possessions. She belonged here, with them. Not with the trophies—she hadn’t earned that—but maybe with the dirty socks. No. She was a person. This was—it hurt to think it—an unexciting nineteen year old boy’s room. It was poorly lit and ventilated.
She needed more.
Cass made it to the desk. The screen just showed a distant Mediterranean sunset. Next to it, very small, was a tiny portrait of his Mom. She was very tall. Cass vaguely recalled her—looming yet gaunt in baggy sweatshirts at band meets.
More, she needed to learn everything there was about him.
Owen was the most fascinating person in the world.
Cass opened his browser. BAD GIRL, the virus said, shocked. But even it was curious—it was good to know who you were being enslaved to, who you would spend a lifetime pleasing. Everything she learned would be used to make her more of his.
The BAD GIRL, slit juicy, breasts tender and full, checked his bookmarks. There was one folder for youtube band performances. There was a second folder marked MISC. HOMEWORK, and Cass checked it. BAD GIRL hoped it was his porn folder. She wanted to see it, to see people fucking, to learn how Owen wanted her folded over, bent around, stretched out. What kind of face he wanted to see, when she came—innocent? Half-conscious?
Now she was being really, actually, bad, going through his things. Her pussy quivered, and she was about to drool. Wasn’t she a thing, also? It was hard to feel like she was tresing, when the virus wanted her to belong. There was a sliver of independence there, and she grabbed onto it, rifling through Owen’s life.
MISC. HOMEWORK was completely full of bookmarks. There were pages of them.
The first one read IS IT REALLY OKAY FOR AN OTHERWORLDER LIKE ME TO OWN A PUPPY GIRL SLAVE?
“What?” Cass said, out loud.
What? the virus told her.
Wait, what, they both echoed. Sorry?
There were a dozen other bookmarks for the same series, at different points.
And then there were the other ones. Isekai Meikyuu de Harem wo, which had a puppy girl. The puppy sections of Monster Musume. Videos, of puppy girls. And the image files. There were lots of image files.
Cass wasn’t sure what to make of the image files. The girls were... mostly human. That was encouraging? They were 95% human.
Excepting the ears and the tail and the collar.
“Uh oh,” she said.
Uh oh, the virus told her.
She pulled open his desk drawer. It held his collection of dog collars. There were nine of them, and they were very, very degrading.
They were the cheap kinds that went on the worst kinds of sluts, the trash chattel that responded to Hey Pussy. Most of them were bright pink, and had nametags. Not very original nametags. COCK WHORE was one, and STUPID SLUT, and another just read PUSSY in gold lettering. There was an all-black one with the rhinestones on the inside, which looked painful to wear. A few were genuine dog collars, with the dangling nametag, in blank. Waiting for someone to add a name.
One of them read “BAD GIRL CASSANDRA”.
She blinked. No. It was blank. The virus had put her name on it. She couldn’t even trust her eyes, they were slutty too...
“CASS!”
He was upset, and furious, and in the room with her.
Embarrassed at her finding his collection. His face twisted. The boy part of him was humiliated. The adult part was angry.
“Close the drawer!” Owen said. “And—the computer, Jesus CHRIST Cass!”
She had frustrated him. She was a BAD GIRL. She whimpered out loud.
It was not the worst moment of his life, because his Mom had died. But having his half-enslaved sexpot partial-girlfriend discover his deeply hidden anthro puppy girl collar fetish was pretty high up on the list. It was easily top five, it could crack the top three.
She wanted to at least close the computer window, so badly, but her body was locked up with needs, desires, wants, roles, obedience, submission, confusion. Cass wasn’t even sure what she was seeing. Her mouth lolled open, her eyes were cross-eyed. She cocked her head, to communicate that this stupid puppy female was a little overwhelmed. He wanted her to be—what? What exactly was she looking at, on his computer screen? The girl on screen was very cute, with warm, dark eyes and a furiously wagging tail. She had really big tits.
Having no better ideas, and her brain having completely shut down, Cass lifted up her shirt to show him her own titties. They were getting super big. Her nipples were long and pointy.
“CASS!” Owen said. He loomed in front of her in his old jeans and his thrifted button-down, and smelled angry and aroused.
On screen, Akane the puppy girl stuck out her cute pink tongue.
“SIT! STAY!” Owen commanded. “Damn it—BAD GIRL!” He put four years of frustration into it, and something else. A lot of dreams. A lot of guilty masturbation sessions. Owen was through with carefully crafting non-commands.
The worst part, in retrospect, was how achingly good it felt to fall out of the chair, and put her butt on his floor. To sit on her haunches. Although there was a big gulp of guilt and mortification, at tresing, at disappointing him, it was submerged in a sea of delight. These were the real orders. The virus craved them above all else. Sharp, terse demands, and if they eroded her little remaining free will, and bits of her unnecessary personality, so much the better.
This was SUBMISSION.
Cass moaned. She ground her ass into his floor. She was still holding one of his collars, the one that read STUPID SLUT. Her body wanted to fall over, but she couldn’t let it. She had to SIT and STAY. She’d been a bad enough girl already.
Owen reached past her and closed his browser window.
He regarded his property. She was panting. She knew him a lot better now. Owen liked panting. He liked his girls a little feral. Very obedient. He definitely liked the idea of her drinking out of a dog bowl. Little clues fell into place.
“Give me that,” he told her. “NOW.”
Cass handed him the collar.
She arched her neck, in case he wanted to put it on her.
Owen trembled. His cock tented his pants. He opened the collar clasp. Cass couldn’t really imagine what he was thinking. It was strange, trying to anticipate the boys. At times she felt attuned to their wants and needs, utterly attentive to what men wanted. At other times they were distant, god-like, totally incomprehensible. Like predicting the path of a tornado.
The BAD GIRL struggled to reassemble a working intellect from the sex-heated mess she was using. It was flooded with hormones, simmering with the virus. What processing power she had was put into berating herself for being bad. Her mouth filled with spit, and she was about to drool.
He definitely, at least, wanted to put a collar on her.
“You... shouldn’t... be in here,” he said again, and rubbed his face. His hands jerked forwards. Belatedly, her neck bared, Cass heard very distant alarm bells. The collar read STUPID SLUT. If it went on her, it was true. It was all true. She’d be a stupid slut. And that would be it for Cassandra as currently put together. There’d be a new, stupid, slut version.
“Owen...” BAD GIRL whispered, and swallowed hard against her dry throat. What was she doing? He wanted to collar her. She’d found his deepest, darkest desire, and she was going to deny him it? She really was the worst girl. Dog. Whatever. Break into his room and tell him not to cum? True, it was the only way to retain her personality, but who cared about that?
BAD DOG, the virus told her, rallying. It could work with this. Dogs were obedient, it was their main thing, and obedience, was, ultimately, the goal.
“Cy... said... not to touch us,” Cass managed. With her eyes closed, she could just do it. Just.
God, she was the worst.
Owen wrenched his arms back and tossed the collar against the wall. Cass fought back an urge to go fetch it. “Alright. Alright, fine. Yeah. Alright. Christ. Why did you... are you trying to get me upset? I’m trying—REALLY hard—”
“Cum on my face,” Cass gasped. “Please. Sir.”
She swallowed. She knew what he wanted.
“MASTER,” she cooed.
Owen blinked.
“Please. You have to,” Cass said. She opened her mouth. “You can’t touch me, and I was so bad, and I’m so—you have to cum on my face. You have to.” It was the very least a BAD GIRL could do.
“That’s the virus—”
“I need it!” Cass pled. She did. She needed it badly. All of her did, her virus-addled self, the band geek, the boring shut-in, needed his cum on her. “Please, please jerk off onto my face, please please please. You won’t be touching me. I’ve been bad and I need you to cum on me. All over my face.”
She bowed her head. “You’re right. I’ve been a bad... dog.” She looked up.
It was a huge relief to watch a part of his respect for her, as a person, flicker and die.
“Okay. Yeah. Sure,” Owen said. He pulled his pants down. All his frustration had been laced into his dick. It was a furious red. Cass stared at it, relieved. She had no resistance left at all. Whatever he wanted to do with her was fine. It wasn’t even about trust. It was pure, ive, obedience.
“Please cum on my stupid face,” Cass said, heartfelt. And then, when he hesitated: “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do with my Mom.”
That worked. Owen started to stroke. “I thought you weren’t a slut.” he told her. “I thought you didn’t want to be your Mom.”
She’d say anything to help him cum. Anything. “I liked it when you came on me, in the car. I liked having your cum on my lips. I slurped it down. Mom was right. It tastes good.”
Was it too much? She watched his hand slow down. Even now, sheepish and self-conscious and humiliated, he was trying, trying for the worthless, disobedient cunt that she was... “This is just the virus talking, isn’t it? Cass—”
“Please, cum in here, master,” BAD GIRL said, and opened her mouth wide. She pointed at her lips, and stuck out her tongue.
She didn’t have the floppy ears, or the collar, or the tail, but the look of perfect, dumb compliance, the adoration, the unquestioning obedience, she gave that everything she had. Everything she’d seen in his bookmarks.
“God,” Owen said. He pulled at his cock. He arched his long, rangy back.
Owen spurted all over her. He had no control at all. The first shot slashed across her face, diagonally, from her hair to her chin. The second one landed short of the mark, on her shirt, and on her skirt. She leaned forwards, to get the third blast. This one landed right in her mouth, and Cass made a big production out of swallowing it. It tasted like salt goo, and, also, it was delicious. The texture was perfect, and so warm. It was obviously the best cum in the whole world.
“Thank you... thank you...” she babbled, relieved, through cummy lips. At least she was getting used to the wild surges of hormone-driven emotions. She barely felt any urge to faint. The bliss of swallowing jizz was getting normalized. “I know I’m boring and bad and I’m just a favor you’re doing for your Dad and...”
“Shut up,” Owen commanded her. She stopped talking. A hint of shy Owen peeked through, as he stuffed his cock back into his pants.
“I mean,” he amended. “You’re not boring.”
“That’s not ME me, the collars, the—manga,” Owen said, later. “It’s a—you know. The entire world is full of porn now. Its nice to have a... thing... that’s not just, what you see out the window. Such as... isekai anthropomorphic puppy girl slaves.”
“Uh-huh,” Cass said. “So. A few questions? Is that okay?” She sat on the couch, with her back straight. She wore his jism on her face and shoulders, and had licked some of it off. The rest she was saving for later.
Owen let out a long, ragged breath. “Go.”
“Isekai. What does that mean?”
“Don’t worry about it,” her owner said. “Comics.”
“And, anthro..porn...morpho?” Cass said. “Was that the word?”
“Anthropomorphic. Like, animal-ish. And, to be clear, I max out at like 10% animal. Tops. And just the puppy girls, and RARELY with body fur. Not even cat girls. And no reptile girls. I do draw that line.” her master said.
She was probably going to be this man’s lifelong sex slave. Alrighty, Cass thought. Okey-dokey-doke.
“Okay. Great,” Cass said. Reptile girls. Okay. OKAY. “And, Slave, I know that one. Another question. One of the folders was marked, BUPPYS?”
“Did you look in that folder?” her keeper said.
“No,” Cass said.
“Okay. Good.” her proprietor said. “And, to be clear, never look at my computer browser history or bookmarks again. Great. Glad we had this talk.”
He cleared his throat.
They were back in the living room, and Cass was feeling more human. Although she was still in her skirt, and didn’t have a lot of success keeping her legs together. Shooting Owen panty shots didn’t seem that big of a deal anymore. She’d survived the big encounter with her neck unadorned, and without a stern written reminder to be a ~USELESS PUSSY PROPERTY~ like collar number six said.
But still, getting heavy loads on her face, and then in her mouth, and then swallowing it, did some damage to a girl’s independence from a man. The virus was just as... confused... as she was, about the doggo thing. But it was willing to learn. It was willing to take Hiragana lessons if it meant more cum shots to the face. It was probably wondering if she could grow fur, if it tried really hard.
“So. It’s a thing,” Cass said. “It’s a thing you have! It’s okay to have a... thing!”
“Right. It’s a thing,” Owen said. “Look, since three years ago every girl in my world turned into a simpering, obedient slut at my beck and call. I can—whenever I want—”
“Put my—me—your girl on a leash and walk her around the park?” Cass suggested.
She was proud of dropping the ‘me’ for a third-party unspecified ‘girl’. She was still fighting, as much as the crackle of cum on her skin seemed otherwise, and as much as she wanted to wag a tail.
Owen had cum recently, so the idea just made him take a deep breath, instead of trembling, barely constrained. “All us guys who still have... you know... it sounds sillier and sillier but... who have some respect for girls... it’s not like we’re unaffected. Like I know Hao really wants Melody to... well... none of our business.”
“Hao wants Melody to.. what?”
“Ah, you know, it’s just—well, I think its a—he wants her to cum her brains out. Like he makes her cum so hard she forgets her name. That’s actually a pretty common... anyway. So. You know the virus makes us hornier. We jerk off a lot. We have... fantasies. And that’s all they are.”
“It’s okay to have fantasies,” Cass told him. She was going to have to go home and read the entirety of Puppy Girl Slave. She was going to learn to dress like an “isekai” character that had a tail. She was going to go the rest of her life wanting to lick his face. “Really. I’m sorry I snooped. I wanted to know more about you. I felt like you were—a stranger.”
“It’s not a good idea to learn everything about a boy that’s 19 and a—” Owen bit his lip. At a certain point, there was no more he could be humiliated.“A virgin.”
Cass gave him her best serious look, and swiveled her legs open. He had to see her underpants while she said this. It was important. In fact, she needed to go shave her pussy... or did she?
“I think its... “ she wanted to say “irable”, but it wouldn’t come out. “...super fucking cool that you’re a virgin,” she told him, and licked her lips. “I’m a virgin too. We should win an award, for lasting this long.”
Owen’s eyes had trouble figuring out where to go. Her neck, or her thighs. Either was fine.
“I know your fantasy is to not turn into your Mom—”
“No, no no no,” Cass said, shaking her head. “That’s my DREAM. My fantasy is to wear your collar and a leash and you walk me through the park, and you yank on the collar when I’m bad.”
Between them The Dogs slept on the carpet. The humans were up to some bullshit. They hadn’t even gone for a walk.
Owen snorted. “Your fantasy as of ten minutes ago.”
“Before then it was WORSE, Owen,” Cass told him. Guys just did not understand the virus. They would never, could never understand. “It was just violent rape fantasies. And the guys didn’t even have faces. This is BETTER. This is like, a lot better, Owen. Your deep, dark, hidden, secret fantasy is to go for lots of walks with me? Owen, that’s the sweetest thing in the world.” And she’d have litters. But at this point, Cass was very willing to settle.
Owen brightened. He smiled. The smell of his cum was everywhere, and it was very comforting and warm.
She’d said the right thing, and made him happy. She was happy, too.
“Lets play some music,” he said.
The flute. She hadn’t touched it in years. Cass cracked open her case, half-hoping that the flute inside would be tarnished, moldy, unplayable, so she couldn’t disappoint him. Instead it was pristine, the same pure metal she’d put away long ago. She picked it up and settled her mouth on it. Owen’s eyes lingered on her lips, on her throat.
“Bottom line, puppy girls are just a sex kink, just forget about it.” Owen concluded.
“Forget about what?” Cass said.
She tilted her head at him. What was he talking about?
Owen buried his face in his hands. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. Cass’ confusion grew. She wet her lips. What time was it? It had be late, the dogs were fast asleep, curled up in front of the TV.
“Forget about... forgetting about... puppy girl sex kink,” Owen said, stiffly. “Just play.”
Oh, right, his puppy girl sex kink. It was gone, now it was back. She blew a first, sour note, and followed it up with a second one. It was hard to play the flute while her memories were being rapidly deleted and undeleted.
“Control your breathing,” Owen instructed, all band instructor now. “We’ll start with—you know what? Just play better. Cass, I want you to play better.”
RIght, of course. Play better. The command sang in her. They were getting bigger and bigger. They had more room to stretch out in, they were no longer itches she could avoid scratching. They were commandments on the tablets of her mind. Cass started to play better. Her fingers danced along the length of the flute, evoking a woodland scene. The dogs woke up and looked at her, unimpressed.
“Even better than that,” Owen told her. He leaned forwards, watching her. She inched her thighs apart again. It felt good that he was taking an interest.