Top Dog [Fantasy]
Contains: D/s, petplay, punishment, impact play. Crossposted from my FetLife account, I am the OP. This writing may not be accurate to safe real-life kink practices.
I like the idea of being in charge.
Always have, always will. The rush of power, of feeling like I can cut loose and be a little bit mean and they can't do anything about it; pinning them, holding their hands down as they squirm and blush and whine; the heady feeling as they cry out in mingled pain-pleasure, of tilting their face up, wiping away the tears as I whisper: "You can take just a little more for me, can't you, baby?"—it does things for me, that's what I'm saying.
But liking the idea of control doesn't always mean liking actually having control. Not complete control, anyway. I need someone to tell me what to do, to direct me. Even the smartest dog needs an Owner to call the shots, and I'm nothing special, just a silly, food-motivated mutt with a big heart and a protective streak.
I realized some time ago what I really wanted: to be top dog. To be the alpha, if I can be forgiven the outdated metaphor. To lead the pack for my Owner, to keep order and train and punish and take care of all their other pets for them so they never have to worry about managing the pack. I want their other pets' behavior to fall on my shoulders, their misbehavior paid for in lashes on my skin.
I want to be someone's scary dog privilege.
I want to walk down the street on my Owner's leash, keeping alert for threats, eyes on everyone who passes. I want to wear a muzzle, a spiked collar tagged Bite Risk, a leather leash with a length of chain. I want to be always at the ready to snap at anyone who thinks an Owner who is small or feminine or soft is easy prey. They're not. They're my Owner, their safety my only charge and their hand on my leash the only thing keeping me under control.
I want to be head of a household of subs, a pack of pets only allowed to leave the house at our Owner's word—or under my supervision. I want to spend my days directing them in their duties, tutoring them in their positions, doling out pain for misbehavior and pleasure for excellence. I want to take them to the do the shopping, out for hot chocolate, for a picnic, to go swimming in the summer sun or to run and play in the frost and snow. Always watched over by me. Always close by my side, where they're safe, where I am in charge.
I want our Owner to come home in the evening to find food on the table, all the pets dressed as I chose. Perhaps with cute asses spanked scarlet for acting out; perhaps blushing after I tied them down and teased them until they dripped and whined and shook, only to leave them denied so our Owner could choose for themself whether they deserved it. I want to greet our Owner naked but for my collar, my tail and ears, standing in the door where I could be seen by any passer-by. I want to greet them with soft kisses and whines as they pet my hair and grab my waist to pull me in for an embrace.
I want to eat my dinner curled up at my Owner's feet in a puppy-pile with the rest of the pack, all warm soft skin and fur and limbs sliding satin-smooth over each other. I want to rest my chin on my Owner's thigh as they gently feed me pieces of the cake I baked for them, fingers sliding over my bottom lip and gently invading my mouth as I lick the last of the frosting from their thumb. I want them to laugh and chide: "Chocolate isn't good for puppies, you know," only to give me another piece when I give them pleading eyes.
I want to leave the other pets in a cuddle pile on the plush rug by the fire, dozing in the warm, flickering light, as my Owner takes my wrist—always my wrist, never my hand; they do not lead me gently, they pull me without mercy—and drags me to their bedroom. I want them to shove me down on my knees, toy with the collar around my pale throat and run their nails over my scalp just hard enough to hurt, as I try to make my thoughts coherent enough to report on our day, all of us who stay home for our Owner. On the work commissions I got done in the morning as the other pets cleaned the house; on what we had for lunch and our outing to the gym and salon in the afternoon. Our Owner likes us to keep pretty for them, after all, and I in particular have to be able to live up to the threat I live to imply.
I want to explain every punishment and reward I doled out, every choice I made throughout the day, from clothes to meals to purchases to free-time activities, and for my Owner to decide if I chose well enough, or if like any dog left unsupervised, I became too self-indulgent, pushing the boundaries of rules I knew perfectly well should be obeyed.
Perhaps I did well; perhaps my Owner will pull me into bed, into their lap, to pet my hair and stroke me. To pull me down so I can straddle their thigh and take the pleasure that is my reward amid soft, fluttering kisses that make my heart race even after so much time. To push me down between their legs with a wicked smirk as they lie back on the pillows and watch me indulgently.
Or perhaps I failed.
Perhaps I will be punished. Perhaps my hands will be cuffed to the bedposts, designed for that very purpose. My back arched, ass in the air, face pressed into one of my Owner's plush pillows, so very fluffy and luxurious that it makes the pain almost worse. Spanked, softly at first, then harder. First with their hand, barely hard enough to warm my skin, and at first I arch into the feeling, forgetting what I can expect. Then, leather falls trail over my skin and I remember. The first hit with the flogger will be hard, cracking on my tender thighs, raising welts for later. A warning of where this evening will end. My Owner, my Master will ease then, back to almost-gentle strikes, slowly getting harder until—
Until. Until a moment of rest, of recovery, and I almost relax as my Master moves around the room, before a harsh stripe scours across my ass and I yelp in surprise and pain. The evil stick, their favorite to use on me. I can never keep my cries in when they strike me with it, and they take a perverse joy in pinching and groping my ass and thighs the day after they've used it on me, watching me flinch away as they press on the welts they've painted me in.
They hit me a few more times, judging carefully, alternating hard strikes with gentler ones, ones that only burn a little with ones that make me cry out and whine between clenched teeth.
"Turn over," they say, and watch me struggle mindlessly to obey, pulling against my cuffs and twisting my arms painfully as I try to turn onto my back. "Dumb puppy." It's full of fondness.
They unclip my hands for just a moment, help me to turn over with deceptively soft little hands, dimpled at the knuckles, butter-soft like a Victorian lady who never worked a day in her life. I know better than to try to get away. I earned this. I failed to live up to their expectations and it's their job to keep me in line, just like it's my job to keep the others in line.
I stare up at their mild expression. If not for their eyes, I could swear they pitied me. I know better, though: they are loving every second of this.
The next strike hits on my breasts, and that's a whole new type of agony. I flinch away, then arch up again, struggling against the cuffs even though I know it won't help. They're merciful, perhaps, switching back to the flogger instead of continuing with the evil stick, but tears are still running down my face by the time they pause to drag their nails down my chest and pinch a nipple. My cheeks are streaked with mascara, my mouth red from biting them, my eyes blurred with tears of pain. All I can see is my Master's face, swimming above me as they smile and stroke my cheek.
"How are you feeling, pet?"
I try to think. My head is swimming. "Okay," I manage. It's not enough, so I grope for more words. "It hurts, but I can take more."
"I know you can, lovey," they say, amused. "I've done far worse to you. You're lucky, puppy, getting just the kind of pain you like."
"I can," I say, unsteadily, "can still have too much of a, um, a good thing."
Their smile turns wicked. "I know, darling."
The evil stick is back. Back on my tits, my thighs. They put it aside, at some point, but push my knees apart so they can raise stinging welts on the insides of my thighs, where I'm most tender, and it takes all my willpower to keep from shoving my legs together to get away from it. With every hit, they repeat my mistakes of the day: failing to finish a commission I had due tomorrow, skipping the last set of my squats at the gym, not having the wine ready at dinner. Stupid, foolish mistakes, mistakes I don't make anymore.
Maybe on some level, I wanted this. Needed it. It's the only reason I would fuck up so many times in one day, to earn myself a good solid punishment.
At some point, it ends. I don't know how long it's been. Probably only half an hour or so since that first slap with the flat of their hand; my Owner can pack a lot of pain into a short time.
I'm too big for them to carry, two hundred-something pounds of solid muscle and bone, but they rub my sore wrists once I'm uncuffed, and lead me to the bathroom with a hand gentle on my back. I'm too tender for a bath, hot water would only hurt more, so they use a gentle washcloth instead, wiping the blackened tear-tracks off my face, kissing my cheeks and forehead gently. They kneel between my legs to rub comfrey salve on my thighs, turn me so they can treat my stinging butt too. My hard, spiked collar comes off, and the press a kiss to the hollow of my throat.
"Do you want to sleep with me tonight?" they ask, gentle.
I can't muster the energy to speak, but I nod.
"The others?"
Another nod. I need the warmth, the safety of the Pack. The reassurance I'm still loved, still worthy, even with my mistakes.
They settle me in bed, then go to fetch the others. Normally my duty, but I'm too shaky to walk and barely verbal. I just curl up against a pillow that smells like my Owner, press my face into the cool linen, let myself drift. When the others slip into bed, I'm almost asleep, but still awake enough to whine a happy little noise as I pull one of my packmates close to my chest and bury my face in her hair. My Owner crawls in behind me, and they're not quite tall enough to be the big spoon, but they still try, knees tucked in under mine, lips resting against the back of my neck.
I drift off like that. Content. Centered again in the knowledge that if I do something wrong, if I can't keep control, my Owner will always catch me.