Pet Show

As usual, she woke up, showered, shaved everything, washed her hair, so on. Grooming every day at least once, and taking special care of her skin and hair was an activity He wanted dedicated specifically to Him.

"I want My pet to be beautiful. I want her to smell good. I want her to take care of herself. If a pet can't take care of herself, she has no business trying to please Me."

She thought about it while she was washing her hair every morning. It always send a tingle into her lower belly and into her pussy.

She put on the scented lotion He picked out for her ("Whether you like it or not. You're mine, you serve me, and I like this one", he'd reminded her in a hushed, firm, dangerous voice when she tried to complain about it). She put on her red leather collar (they'd gotten a nameplate bolted on for their year anniversary), and a jingling ankle bracelet with a lock and key charm (the little audible reminder made Him happy, and she knew it). She remained nude for now, but she did have a cute corset-lingerie set for her to wear for Him when He got home. (He let her pick, but He had to screen it first. That almost didn't go well for her ass.)

Her Sir had his usual dry-erase board calendar up for her. It was a system that worked well for both of them- he could write things down as they occurred to him, if he wanted, and if not, she had her usual standing orders, marked by different colored dots. This being a Tuesday, she was supposed to do laundry, including changing their sheets (a green dot).

On the date, though, there was a black star.

On the space allotted for 'notes' (He'd added "for the pet" in black sharpie), next to another black star, it said "hair and make-up and nails"

Which was a bit unusual, because even he didn't like the excess focus on her appearance, but she wasn't going to argue.

She did the laundry, first. Then she started to take the extra steps in her appearance.

That wasn't the big deal, though. What she was focused on, what really had her head going, was what He was planning.

Why would he want her to dress up?

Was there an occasion?

Were they going somewhere?

They'd kept their kink in the house, mostly, and away from houseguests-- was that going to change?

She knew he wasn't going to change his mind on the corset-- he'd have put it away or put out something else to wear. Was that all there was going to be?

Did he just want to see her all dolled up?

She knew him better than that. He was planning something.

It started to bother her that she didn't know.

Trust your Sir, she reminded herself, breathing. Trust your Sir. He won't hurt you. He'll scare you. He might cause pain. But He takes care of you. Trust your Sir.

She folded the laundry. Almost all of it was His.

Trust your Sir.

She hanged the shirts. What if He's bringing over company?

Trust your Sir.

Ironed the pants and hanged them, too. What if He wants to take us on a walk?

Trust. Your. Sir.

She heard it in His voice. His soothing, calming voice. The same voice He used so often right before He did something that they usually both enjoyed greatly, but something new that she'd never tried before. Like the riding crop. That was fun. And the time he tied her up and left her in the closet overnight. And the time he tied her up, gagged her, and fucked her silly-- then went to sleep, leaving her naked, aching, and cum-covered on top of the sheets.

She paired the socks and put them away, and laid out His work clothes for tomorrow. What if He's planning to torture me?

Trust your Sir, you stupid slut.

That was also in his voice. Again, her whole pelvis felt it.

The countdown to six couldn't have been longer.

She'd dressed and dolled up. She was half-sure it wasn't good enough. The other half was certain it was absolutely fantastic.

She sat, crouched, next to the door in her green and blue and red floral-patterned cupped corset and the accompanying thong and waited, fondling her collar and chanting her mantra to herself. Trust your Sir. Trust your Sir.

When he got home, she saw what he was planning.

She was at least half-right on several counts.

He had two friends behind him, a man and a woman. The woman was smoking, and watching with interest as the half-naked woman bustled around her Sir, getting his shoes for him, crawling at his feet and nuzzling his knee and hand. He pet her patiently, then said "heel".

She sat at his ankles, then. She was afraid to look at the two new people. But she found that she had no idea what she was supposed to do, and instead decided to stick to what she knew would be Plan A-- please Sir.

She could feel a traitorous tingle between her legs as she felt both the couples' eyes on her, studying her moves, her squiggly line that was John's very simple, very small, brand on her collarbone.

"See? I told you she'd like it," the woman said to the man with a nudge. "You love this, don't you, sweetie," the woman said, kneeling next to her and petting her neck gently.

Felicia had no idea what to do. She liked the petting, and so she eased into it, waiting to see if her sir stopped her. He didn't.

"I don't know. That's too far for me," the man said.

"It's not something you start doing overnight," said John, Felicia's Sir. "We've been together for a few years, now. I've been training her for two. Felicia, you can speak."

John tried to look Felicia in the eyes, but she had been trained to look away rather well. So he took her by the chin and guided her gaze to his.

"It's okay."

She glanced at the other two. She was trying to please her Sir, but the other people scared her.

"It's okay," he repeated.

She stood up, slowly, and leaned into her Sir and kissed his lips and neck.

She wasn't sure if she was embarrassed for the strangers to have seen her like that, or that she had to stop.

"I love it," she told the man. "It's wonderful. You can breathe," she said to him softly. "Just let her take control. If you trust her to have it."

"Maybe," he grunted, stomping to the living room and taking a seat on the couch.