THE DOGS
Epilogue
At 4:35 a.m. Bella woke up. She didn’t move, at all. Dolls didn’t move. They were moved. They were played with, like the toys they were.
She noted, satisfied, that she was in the same position she’d fallen asleep in. Bella had considered some type of restraint, initially, but this was better. She would learn not to move. Dolls never moved, and she was a doll.
It always felt so good to think that.
She was getting better and better at it. Bella hadn’t flinched at all during her tattoo session. Jules had taken her to get some of the more metal-y tats rearranged. He’d kept the more abstract ones—the death’s eye, the ankh, the scythe. Really the ones from the goth phase that had preceded the metal phase. The needle had turned the SLAYER logo—which even old Bella had kinda regretted—into DADDY’S DOLL. And he’d put a really neat tat of a pull string between her shoulder blades. He liked to rub it.
Jules had given her permission to use the bathroom and drink water and do other non-doll activities, as necessary, but Bella was getting good at fighting off those worthless needs. She laid in the dark and didn’t move, and felt very happy. Jules laid next to her. Today they were going to talk about getting her tits done. Not because she really needed it. It was just hot, the idea of being actual plastic.
Bella Doll eventually orgasmed, from the joy of pure submission. She didn’t even shiver.
At 6:05 a.m. Thomas, Owen’s Dad, went for a jog. More of a sit. He was not in great shape, he realized.
He’d stayed out of Owen’s way as much as possible. More accurately, out of Cass’ way. The couple’s therapy guy had emphasized that Cass should only be in with Owen, as much as possible, until they were pair-bonded. Thomas had nearly lived in his office.
It had been a lonely few weeks. He’d told himself for a long time—it wasn’t really fair to Owen, to bring a slave into the house. Disrespectful to the memory of Owen’s Mom. But now Owen had his own girl, and, judging by all the noise last night, was pretty happy with her.
A girl jogged by—about Thomas’ age. She was dark, and wore red running shorts that showcased a spectacular ass. Thomas realized, startled, that he knew her. That was Sofia Melendrez. He did her taxes. And despite her big flashing collar he was well-aware that she lived alone. He’d had to jump through all sorts of hoops to file for a Single Female. The IRS barely allowed it, these days.
She was going to by him again, on her loop.
At 7:10 a.m. a famous singer stood on the veranda of her mountain fastness.
Money could not lessen the tug of Submission in her blood, but it could do the next best thing. It bought absolute privacy, complete security. She hadn’t heard a man’s voice in years, a network of self-monitoring valkyries running interference. She lived with a staff of twenty women, broadcasting sad songs to what was left of her gender. Sometimes, if she gritted her teeth, and fought through the discomfort, she could even manage something mildly critical of a past boyfriend.
The long vista of the Rocky Mountains spread out in front of her, snowcapped as always and appropriately lonely. In her dreams she skiied down the slope, or sometimes just fell, into the arms of a waiting man. Naughty dreams that followed her through the day. She hummed a few notes. Something heavy on the yearning was coming together.
“Hey,” a man’s voice said.
Her entire body flushed. A man’s voice. She’d only dreamt it for—years. It was music like she could never make.
He was standing just below the compound, dressed to climb. He must have gone up the rock face along the southern edge, meter after meter of sheer cliff face. He was still breathing hard. He had a heavy red beard.
“I’m a big fan,” he told her, grinning.
At 7:45 a.m., Saph was surprised to wake up as Saph.
Cy had really pushed Submission to its absolute limits, making multiple girls out of a single body. Saph usually saw action during working hours, molding young, vulnerable women into the earnest sluts of tomorrow. But Becky was Cy’s everyday type of gal, a soft-spoken bimbo that was plush and fuckable. Saph, spiky and blunt, rarely got bedtime play. Cy usually fucked her in the car after sessions, and especially liked taking her in public, but that was it. She was usually conscious for three to six hours out of every week.
“Thought you might like to know,” her husband/owner told her. “Owen finally came around. Cass’ Mom was right. We’re three for three. No refunds this time around.”
“Finally,” Saph said, shaking her head. “Did we decide if he was very dumb or very smart?”
“Just stubborn,” Cy said. He rolled out of bed and put on his robe. Robes were much more popular during Submission. “You know, I think Cass being such a hottie was actually part of the issue? Her tits were too big. He couldn’t picture himself sucking on them for the rest of his life. Imagination is such a huge part of it.”
Saph was aware that she was experimental, that she existed as a partition on a shared drive. She had no childhood. Cy had made her, and told her what her personality was, and that was that. Still, even a faux simulcra of a person had needs. She reached out and put her hand on Cy’s cock, and jerked it up and down. Rubbed her thumb on the underside, and was rewarded with Master’s first precum of the day.
“Uh-huh,” Saph said. This was nice, jerking off Cy on a weekend morning. It was nice to exist. “I’ll try and keep the boobs down on the next batch. What’s my reward? Just gonna turn me off for a few weeks?”
Cy considered this. As much as she was the tempestuous one, the rebel, the fiery nonconformist, Saph felt her heart pound, wanting to be used, and taken. Her pussy used. While it was still hers.
“I don’t think I can fuck Saph in the ass,” he concluded, leaning back. “But I do think Saph could fuck me, with her butt. Hard.”
“Real hard,” Saph agreed.
She was going to enjoy this stretch of consciousness.
At 8:00 a.m., the Witch of Cherry Hill sang to the birds.
There were less of them then there used to be. The virus was haphazard in the animal kingdom, but a lot of avians were susceptible. They followed the boy birds around, and neglected their eggs.
But not all of them. The finches were immune, and the woodpeckers also. They pattered around, watching her warble, adding in their own occasional chirps. Reese serenaded them, mostly tunes from Disney cartoons. The Witch of Cherry Hill had to keep up appearances. It was hard, being the most beautiful woman in the world, or at least in Michigan. Lots of work.
She had a lot to do. It had been very nice to do Alyssa a favor for once—she’d done Reese innumerable favors—but now she was out of stew. That had been Alyssa’s idea, to attract her wayward daughter through the woods. “I don’t know. Maybe it’ll smell like dog food.” And hey, it had worked. But now Reese was on iron rations until she could resupply.
And she had to wash her hair, always hard in the forest, and the bus needed gas, and her pubes needed shaving. Skin care was so tough, even for a Witch.
She scanned the brush, in case an intensely handsome man was around.
“He’ll come,” Reese told the virus. “He’s going to be rugged, with arms like logs, and shoulders that span a freeway, and he’ll have a big burly chest covered in chest hair. He’ll wear loose jeans but you’ll be able to tell he has the biggest dick in Detroit. And when our eyes meet—it’ll be worth it. Waiting.”
The virus didn’t really believe her. But who was it going to complain to? There were just the birds and the trees and the Witch.
At 8:09 a.m. Melody did her morning flashcards.
“Um... number the number!” she chirped. It was nine times nine, which was super duper way too hard for her now. She’d gotten a lot dumber.
Melody was feeling really good about being a total dumbo sex toy. It had turned out that anxiety and depression were by and large products of higher-order reasoning. And she was DUMB. Wiping everything out had left a smooth and unobstructed highway between her clit and her brain. It was incredible how good it felt to be a giggly, stupid fuck toy. Every day was an adventure, mostly regarding how she was going to get her pussy and tits played with. And to think she was still getting dumber!
It was fun!
“What about... this one?” Hao said. Melody squinted. Ten times ten.
“Oh. Oh! I know this one!” It was remarkable, but a fact had survived the carnage. Ten times ten was one hundred. She really did know it. “One hundred! Gosh!”
Hao was surprised too. Just recently Melody had gotten too dumb to use a TV remote control.
There’d been some concern that she’d get bored, since reading was out of the question, and they weren’t exactly playing chess anymore. Melody would put the bishops up her cunt, since they had the pointiest end. But luckily her big, still-growing titties were a source of pretty much endless enjoyment. Set up with a sex toy, and a laptop showing porno on loop, Melody was entertained nearly all day.
It didn’t take much to occupy her entire attention. She didn’t have much.
“Still too smart,” Hao said, shaking his head. He unzipped his pants. “You know what to do?”
“Ummm,” Melody said. She tilted her head, puzzled. Air floated in one ear and out the other, without a single eddy. It was just pink puffy clouds now, all day. She fingered her necklace. It used to mean something to her. What was it..? “Do I?”
“Suck my dick, you stupid bimbo!” Hao said. But affectionately. Giggling, Melody pulled her top down, to let her dumb big titties out, and got herself to work.
At 8:35 a.m., Cass’ Dad got home.
“I got really attached to that Holiday Inn Express,” he said, putting his keys down, and leaving his suitcase for his slave. “They’ve got some nice girls there, for an airport hotel. One of them is even named Cass. A sign.”
He gave his wife a smooch. Peter was the only one allowed to kiss her. Others could and did fuck her, stick their cocks in her mouth, even some light slapping. Definitely drizzle her with cum. But there were rules, and only her husband got a kiss.
“Kids all worked out?” he said. “You must’ve been sweating. Owen was your idea. I heard you had to toss Cass into the woods even.”
“He was the right choice, not the easy choice,” Alyssa said.
To celebrate her husband’s homecoming she wore a devastating red dress, one that rarely got out of the closet. Accordingly it was unusually unmarred by cum stains, and rips, and tears. Her tits bulged in the two petals intended to secure them. “He was the one who cared about her. Eventually.”
“Uh-huh,” Peter said. “And you knew he’s a—what’s the word—he’s into anthro-somethings? We’re going to have puppies for grandkids?”
“I’m too young and slutty for grandkids,” Alyssa said. “The boy just wants to have a pet. Our daughter is perfect. And now he knows a girl is for life, not just Christmas morning.”
Peter gave her his serious look.
“Was this the right move?” he said, softly.
Maybe, Alyssa thought.
“Do you want to see if you can squeeze more cum in this slutty pussy?” she said. “I bet you can’t. I bet it’s alllllll the way full.”
Of course his wife had it handled. Peter never really doubted her. “Bend over,” he told the biggest whore in the world.
Alyssa obediently turned around, and bent at the knees. Her husband tugged her dress up. She wore a black, lacy pair of panties, also brand new. He pulled them down, sniffing.
A thick drool of cum ran out of her snatch.
“That’s the entire rodeo from last night,” Alyssa told him. “Just missing the bulls. But including the clowns.”
“Well. Yee-haw.” Peter said.
At 8:55 a.m. Owen’s pet woke up.
She felt brief panic at the time, but Owen was right there, in the bed with her, still fast asleep. They’d been up very late talking things out. She’d gotten a lot of new, fun orders. Mostly safety stuff, designed to reinforce who her Master was [Owen her Master was Owen she belonged to Owen], but some interesting additions as well. He yearned for the shortest skirts, and, despite the dog thing, it turned out he liked her completely smooth between the thighs. In fact, he’d watched her shave down totally bald. He liked it if she drooled when she sucked his cock. He liked stroking her hair.
Once he’d fallen asleep she’d inched her way down to the foot of the bed, and curled up there, content.
Owen’s pet felt a lot of things she’d expected to feel, once enslaved. A warm, full contentment, she’d expected that. The hormonal and endorphin award from giving in, from submitting. A persistent horny ache, that also she’d known to look out for. A constant needy heat. A pleasant buzz in her pussy, where Owen had dumped two of three loads the previous night. They’d really gone at it.
Awooo.
She’d expected to have another tedious round of reassurances, to tell him that it was just fine he’d claimed her, but Owen seemed to have finally moved past that. He’d held the leash while he fucked her, all three times. And he was fine with sternly yanking on it, for emphasis.
Ultimately he was now the proud owner of a big-boobed puppy girl slut and there was only so much ennui a guy could have over that.
What Owen’s pet hadn’t expected was—optimism. The worst had happened. Or the best, whichever. She didn’t have to worry about getting claimed and turned into property. It had already happened. It had been a great, rewarding experience. She could even be proud of herself for lasting so long.
The rest of her life now flowed before her, full of fetching and servile behavior and squeezing her pussy around Owen’s dick.
She very quietly slipped out of bed. Master slept on. She was wearing one of his shirts, and one of his collars, and nothing else.
Outside the door, Owen’s other dogs raised their head at her. She winked at them. “Shhh,” she said, and led them out, quietly, to get fed. Soon they’d all go for their first walk together, as a family. Then she’d clean the entire house. And then... who knew? Definitely call up Mom at some point. And Bella and Melody. Or at least, have her Owner call their Owners, arrange a playdate.
With the dogs fed, Owen’s pet checked the drawers. There was a plastic bowl shoved to the back of one of the cupboards. It was an old, discolored orange. Owen’s pet pulled it out and gave it a rinse. It would do. She filled it about halfway with water. She still had her sharpie—it was very useful. She hesitated, and then wrote CASS on it, in big letters.
Then she got down on her hands and knees, stuck her head down, and started to drink.