Becoming Miss Ashley's Pet

An eBook By Chris Bellows.

       The sleek jet turns to make its final approach. In the crystal blue sky of the Caribbean the rays of the afternoon sun cause the smooth white surface to scintillate, spawning a provocative glint in announcing the arrival of civilization on an island secluded from most things manmade.

"Miss Duval, she be here soon, Corky."

Big Sam’s deep staccatoed voice narrates the apparent. The mammoth island native seems to assume that my dumbness transcends to blindness or general unawareness. Thus he vocalizes the obvious in a constant string of aphorisms. Most concern the weather, which in the equatorial climate rarely changes. Yet in Big Sam’s mind, every sunrise requires a welcoming proclamation, lest the expected radiance demur and fail to spread its glorious warmth.

"You be happy to see her."

Big Sam’s language skills are rudimentary but complement well the limited functional level of his naive intellect.

Happy? Of course, I reflect. Any misgivings have long been driven from my consciousness. With Miss Duval’s arrival the island will come to life, the small native population scurrying about to please their Queen. Miss Duval owns the entire 5,000 acres. And though technically part of the French Lesser Antilles, Montserrat, the nearest island, is twenty miles away. There has been no government intervention on Miss Duval’s enclave for years. As stated, she is royalty, a defacto Queen.

The landing gear extends. The flaps lower to make the silhouette of the Citation X, reputedly the fastest private jet in the sky, transform into that of an aquatic bird preparing to break the mirrored surface of a still pond. As the tires chirp with the friction of initial rotation, I feel the expected tug.

You know how Miss Duval like you, Corky. She bring guests."

A black hand the size of a coconut tightens on my leash and pulls. The thick steel neck collar, the interior diameter spiked to assure instant supplication, performs its function, transforming the wearer into the obedient dog of a controlling Master. I right myself at the waist, no longer idling on knees and elbows. If Big Sam wants me kneeling upright then upright I will be. I have long learned that resistance is futile... complete obeisance inviolable.

"Good boy."

Big Sam’s left hand slides down the length of chain to hold the leash close to the collar and steady me. I feel his powerful thumb soothe my neck at the cortex in a guileless gesture of reward. In his right hand is the obedience stick, which in Big Sam’s grasp appears almost dainty. It is a two foot length of bamboo, decoratively wrapped in leather, with a thin strand of hide dangling from the end. I have learned to fear its application, the simple six inch strip of rawhide can sear intolerably when used for correction... particularly on the more sensitive areas of the male anatomy.

"Nice and big for Miss Duval now."

Big Sam can be incongruously tender at times. His right hand lowers and uses the dangling strip to caress the underside of my neglected penis, beginning the expected process of tumescence.

In being completely naked and forced to crawl about on knees and elbows, a nice firm erection will complete the ensemble of subjugation for the arriving Miss Duval. She likes to impress guests visiting for the first time and Corky the human canine always makes an impression.

"Yes, a nice fat penis for Miss Duval," Big Sam mirthfully encourages, tapping out a cadence which he knows to be wildly sensuous to my thoroughly chaste libido.

I feel myself stiffen. All reservations concerning homoerotic interaction have long since been driven from my psyche. When Big Sam wants me hard, I will become hard. And I find myself augmenting his efforts by gingerly moving my head forward and back. This action, though irritating the flesh of my neck, is known to gyrate the slim chain running from the back of my neck collar, down my spine to where it slips into my gluteal cleft, connecting there to my combined anal insertion and faux doggie tail. Thus I can anally stimulate myself, to a point. Since a second shorter chain connects from the tail and leads to a metal band encircling the base of my scrotal sac, I cannot be too exuberant in manipulating my control chain, as Miss Duval has come to describe it. Still, I can hear my testicle bells chime in response to my motion. The sound always brings a smile to Big Sam and he laughs that deep throaty laugh. Something about observing well restrained balls affords a sense of relief to he whose gonads remain free.

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