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.
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.
And something about having a Caucasian male on a leash, one under his control, brings constant amusement. At one time I felt frustration in being under Big Sam’s tutelage, particularly when he showed me off to the women of the island. But such feelings of reservation are long gone, just as I recall Miss Duval implying...
“Some very expensive psychologists have assured me you’ll be completely broken, Charles,” Miss Duval insouciantly suggested before anointing me with the name of ‘Corky’, her childhood pet. “I’m sure you won’t disappoint.”
As I spread my knees to prepare to better display my altered male package, I can honestly report that her cadre of demented psychologists have not been dissatisfied.
“Nothing like a steady stream of homoerotic encounters for the virile homophobic male. The shock, the horror, the revulsion. So nicely cathartic. He’ll be barking for you sooner than you think,” I overheard one highly educated woman propound.
Woof, woof, doctor.
The nearing jet engines muffle Big Sam’s baritone laugh as he rhythmically pats my penis. I peer down to see it rise to point skyward, the relationship of Master and obedient human canine imbuing Big Sam with an intimate knowledge of my anatomy. He likes it when I am made to stand at his behest. And he knows how to facilely bring forth the demanded priapic reaction.
The aircraft taxis to within a few yards. The turbines spin down and the cabin door opens. A smiling copilot steps to the tarmac and extends his arm. A hand appears to take it. There follows into view the exquisite limb of my owner and benefactress, the woman I married... the fabulously wealthy Miss Ashley Duval.
I tremble with a tinge of frisson as she steps into the bright sunlight. A finely manicured hand rises to don sunglasses, disappointingly covering the blue eyes I adore. Still her magnificent form exudes a confident beauty, which I have never seen in a woman of such limited years. She wears a flowing white cotton pleated skirt, a sleeveless silk blouse adorned with a pattern of tropical flowers. And there are of course the boots... white soft leather gracefully rising to her knees where such gratefully end to leave uncovered shapely knees and a hint of the wondrous thighs, which I foolishly assumed, would be forever mine to covet.
At age 32, Miss Duval is one of the wealthiest women in the world. But it is not her pulchritude and limitless financial resources that so excite one who is naked, well restrained and led about on a leash by another male. It is her power... that for which I now have such unfathomable respect. I feel goose bumps knowing that my penis stands in salute to her dominion.
Yes, she has the power and I have none. On her island paradise she reins and I obey... the hierarchy such that a native male of limited education and intellect decides all the where, when and hows of my existence. And only Miss Ashley can change that. She rules.
But it is too late for me to pay the homage I should long ago have bestowed. My fate is sealed. As her pet, any such offering of deference is now superfluous... it is now something which is demanded and taken... not meekly tendered as I should have humbly offered years ago.
Yes, years before I trifled... attempting to play a game in which I thought I knew the rules and had the upper hand.
Big Sam does such a wonderful job with Corky.
Left to his ways, the ingenuous native, barely able to read and write, dotes over my pet as he would his own. And to view the interaction, Master and dog, is both heart warming and amusing. The team of psychologists were very specific about breaking my reprobate husband and as it turns out it was easier than expected.
“Many times, the highly educated succumb the quickest... the realization of futility coming soonest to those who are most aware of the gravity of absolute vulnerability combined with constant torment. It leads to a complete collapse of mental resistance,” Dr. Stella explained.
And with Charles’ Ivy League law degree and annoying intellectual pomposity, she proved to be correct. A steady diet of semen quickly transformed my scheming husband into a groveling pet.
And to think he planned to profit from divorce!
It seems a prized legal education does not prepare one for every challenge in life.
Charles J. Barrington, Esq. is now led about on a leash by a man who barely has the intellectual capacity to write his own name. Yes, it is Big Sam who directs and governs and it is Charles Esq. who must obey.
As always, the perception brings moisture to my loins. In stepping from my plane I have planned a delightful week in the tropical warmth. And rest assured, Corky may continue to scheme but it is most likely a plan by which he can skip his mandated nightly portion of sperm before being afforded his Alpo.
Yes, I insist he practice fellatio. It does wonders for his spirit. And the island women so much enjoy the exhibition... a crawling Caucasian so humbly beseeching dinner, knowing that only after tongue and lips nimbly service the male organ will sustenance be provided.
“Hello, Sam,” I call out to my smiling man servant. “You have Corky looking very tan.”
He demurely nods with respect as I step forth to take the leash. I have given instructions that Corky be staked out daily in the sun. The radiant heat turns his neck collar, control chain and testicle trinkets to a searing hotness, providing a suitable reminder of his transformation.
As Sam hands me the obedience stick, an enormous pink and wet appendage thrusts from Corky’s mouth to eagerly lick my hand in greeting. I laugh and playfully tap his nose, reveling in the notion that along with suturing his vocal cords I had certain alterations made to lengthen his tongue. No longer needed to enunciate words, certain ligaments were severed to allow dexterous and soothingly alacritous movement. Rather self serving on my part, but wonderfully prevenient for the oral gratification I demand. And the frustration I know he experiences in losing an attorney’s most forceful weapon, his voice, makes me quiver with joy.
“Been a good boy, Corky?”
I take the leash and turn back, keeping him upright on his haunches. Sam has him hard as a rock and I have guests stepping from the plane who have not before visited my island paradise. To assure Corky’s tumescence is noticed, I lower the obedience stick and diddle his erection. When his testicle bells ring, there is collective laughter as the sound causes all eyes to follow the motion of my hand.
“He’s happy to see me,” I zestfully announce.
Corky whines with the intense humiliation. It is a plaintive sound, seeming to implore me not to put him on display. But I casually ignore.
What is a pet for, Corky, if I cannot show him off to friends?
In holding firmly on the leash, I can feel Corky’s trembling apprehension as he is forced to confront my guests stepping from the plane. With me is an eclectic gathering... Reginald, a well hung new boyfriend, Dr. Helga Reinhold, whose impeccable reputation as a surgeon belies her deviant affectation for altering men, a physical therapist with noted disdain for the male gender, one of the prominent psychologists, Dr. Stella Corrothers, who years before helped with Charles’ behavioral transition, and a lovely couple whose enjoyment of kinky encounters and thorough subservience always makes for stimulating company.
“There are no cars on the island, folks. But the plantation house is a short walk. The flight crew will assure that your luggage finds its way.”
Sam steps away to assist the crew and I relax my grip on the leash. An attentive Corky knows to lower himself to his elbows where little doggie legs extend. Since his arms are forcibly bent and encased in thick latex, his hands are useless. Likewise, his folded legs are surrounded with similarly strong but comfortable material ensuring that Corky moves on all fours. So with a brisk tug and a command of ‘heel’, my loyal canine follows as I lead the entourage to the plantation house. And of course I cannot resist lightly snapping at those balls with the single strand of the obedience stick. Corky’s animated reaction to my playful nips brings forth both the sound of his bells and laughter from my amused guests. My strokes serve to establish control and since Corky knows that the whippy shaft of the firm obedience stick can also be applied to the upturned soles of his feet, complete obedience is assured. He has had enough bastinado for a lifetime. Some experts suggest that my cruel method of indoctrination into dogdom may forever have obviated his ability to again walk normally.
I wonder if Corky will ever have the opportunity to find out whether that is true.