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A year ago in June I came in contact with Miss Gwenny on an alt personals website, while on vacation.
The e-mail history has been lost, but the chat sessions from that time remain–somehow we had come to the conclusion that I would be the best submissive I could be as a servant to a man. I had never been with (and have yet to be with) a man and so, despite my interest, I wasn’t able to take it seriously enough. After a brief stint of puppy training, we lost touch, and I thought of it only occasionally until I heard from her again.
On vacation in the same place a year later, the little training she had given me spurred me to do without her guidance what she had had to order me to do, before. It was very, very late, a warm, balmy summer evening in Tennessee, and I had gone out on the back porch to smoke. In no time, I was a puppy again, completely nude, on my hands and knees, squatting to take a piss in the thick izmit escort grass. I sent her a note saying so, packed my bags, and drove home.
Our first time back in contact, we discussed a multitude of things, and she demanded a few things of me that I had never done before. After ten days of self-imposed chastity, I was willing to do everything she asked of me. Hungry to please her. She asked if I was thirsty, and she told me to drink from the toilet, “like a good little puppy.” I had never drunk from a toilet, and it was humiliating, at first. “If you were owned by a canine Master,” she said, “that is where you would always drink..”
We had discussed toilet training, and she said that she wanted to see me drink the byproduct of what I had drunk from the toilet earlier–she put me in my place right away, as a puppy and a toilet slave. I turned on my webcam and showed her my body, nervously izmit escort kızları holding onto a clear bell jar mug, and followed her orders. “Pee like the good little bitch you are,” she said, laughing at me as she watched, humiliating me. “How pathetic,” she said, as the hot urine turned my stomach. “More. Finish,” she demanded, just a couple of ounces left. I lost it, vomiting my own urine back into the cup, looking up at her.
Once I had been to the bathroom and cleaned up, she asked if I was alright before humiliating me further: “I enjoyed watching you like that,” she said. “It was very pathetic.” I could feel myself melting away, already being molded into what she desired me to be–a shameless slut, wanting nothing more than to be owned.
To break me down further, she made me tuck my cock and balls between my thighs for her, and complimented me gebze escort on my girlish figure. I offered her the little crossdressing gear that I had available, but she just wanted the heels. At her request, I put them on, and followed orders that would guide me around the house, “tucked,” for her amusement. “What a slutty whore you are,” she cooed. I wonder if she knew then how her words reached into me and twisted me around inside. “You look just like a little bitch,” she said; I heard, “you are my little bitch.”
Once she had had her fill of seeing me that evening, she left me with my orders:
1. drink one glass of pee a day
2. sleep in the garage every night
3. grow your patch (my slave patch, a 1″x2″ patch of pubic hair above what she had called my pussy)
I tried to sleep in the back yard caddy corner from the neighbors’ barking dogs, but couldn’t, and slept in the garage for the first time ever. Within the span of three hours, she had already claimed me as her property, hungry for my next taste of her attention, willing to beg, plead, and humiliate myself for it.
I slept well.
Well, except for having to go pee in the middle of the night–and that, I did in the back yard, like a good little puppy.
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