Lush Whisper

A short story about Jack, an unusual man with unusual tastes, and the unusual pet that he keeps in his home.

Content Warnings/Tags: abduction and holding of a vulnerable woman for the purposes of a forced and controlling sexual relationship; implied brainwashing/Stockholm syndrome; dubious consent due to the aforementioned circumstances.

Additional note that this is one of my stories with a lot of desperation/piss-play.

Jack knew that there was something wrong with him. Even if he hadn't been able to figure that out on his own, he'd heard it often enough from the few people who knew him well.

His mother had been the first. She'd searched his room when he was nineteen--for what, Jack never did know; it wasn't as if he'd ever been very interested in drugs or alcohol.

Regardless of what she'd been looking for, what she found was his notebook: a detailed referendum of his life plans, stuffed full of reference material that he'd photocopied from books at the library. Pages from histories on torture devices, treatises on unethical medical experiments of the past, tips from animal training books. He'd kept it stuffed under his mattress, where most young men might stash a favorite porno.

Jack had found her seated on his bed, reading through it with her mouth set in a grim line.

He'd offered her an excuse: "That's all just nonsense, Mom. It's just a fantasy."

"I knew there was something sick in you, Jackie," she replied, a tired resignation in her voice. "Tell me the truth, now. Do I have to worry about the police showing up here asking me about some dead girl?"

"I don't want to kill anyone, Mom." That was the honest truth. A dead woman held no appeal to Jack.

She gave him a long, hard look, and then sighed and shoved the notebook into his hands. "You get better about hiding that shit. If your stepfather sees it..."

"Yeah, I get it."

Jack burned the notebook a few weeks later. He didn't really need it any more, anyway; by then, the plan lived in his head.

The next criticism had come from his girlfriend in college. He'd decided to date a nice Christian girl, one who was open about saving herself for marriage. It seemed like the easiest way to give the appearance of normality without dealing with the...complications that he worried might arise if he tried to act out a normal, consensual sexual relationship.

He also hoped that her inexperience with men might help her overlook any oddities in how he interacted with her. But that didn't quite work out.

She broke things off after a semester, and was very blunt about the reason why: "You're really nice, Jack, but...I get this anxious feeling whenever I think about going somewhere alone with you? I don't feel that way about most other guys. So I think this isn't going to work out."

"That's reasonable," Jack said, because it was.

He didn't try dating again.

Shallow social connections worked best for him. Once Jack learned that, he was able to build an easy life for himself. His coworkers all thought he was a bit of a nerd, a homebody, a little too dedicated to work--but they liked him for it, appreciated how he would cheerfully pick up all the overtime. When they asked about family, vacation plans, or hobbies, he would give a vague and bland answer and then turn the question back on them.

The women at the office seemed to think he was safe enough. He even overheard two of the ladies from the admin pool speculating that he might be gay.

Of course, it wasn't easy. It was stressful--keeping his work and home life so strictly divided, putting on a mask every day, constructing a sneaking camouflage with words in every idle conversation. Working overtime was a pain, sometimes--especially these days, when he really would rather be at home.

But charade was necessary to the kind of life he wanted to live. The kind of life that he needed to live, to make life worth living.

And it was all worth it, when he got to go home to his perfectly trained pet.

Jack hadn't given his pet a name. She'd had one, once, certainly--and she'd told it to him, too, when he was still pretending to treat her as a person--but she wasn't that person any more; the name her parents had given her was no longer hers. Jack had re-made her, and so it was his decision to name her or not.

Names for pets, in his opinion, were either utilitarian or sentimental. You name a dog so that you can call it back to you. You name a cat to feel better bonded to it.

His pet did not go outside, and his depth of feeling for her was already immense. A name would only cheapen their bond. So she did not need one; she was pet, or girl, or occasionally bitch--not in a derogatory sort of way, but simply as a reminder that she was no longer classified as a human woman, but rather something closer to a breeding dog.

Working overtime was frustrating for Jack, but it was much harder on his pet.

She knelt in the entryway, waiting for him, as he walked through the door at seven-thirty. She would have been there two hours, not knowing when he might arrive; it wasn't as if he bothered to call home and tell her when he would be late. She was far too well-trained to squirm--but there was a visible tension in her muscles, a more severe angle in how she arched her back, that made it clear that she was uncomfortable.

Kneeling for two hours was part of it, certainly, but he knew the primary reason for her discomfort would be her very full bladder.

"Hello, girl," he said, dropping a hand to her head and mussing her hair as he took his coat and hat off. "You've been waiting for me, hmm? What a good pet."

"Thank you, Jack. Um, how was your day at work?"

Jack chuckled. His pet knew all the right words, but no amount of training could hide the strain in her voice.

"Very boring." He gripped her hair and tugged firmly, inducing her to follow him as he walked into the kitchen. She crawled after him obediently, the plastic dog tail sticking out from her chastity belt wagging in the air. "Is dinner ready?"

"Yes, Jack--chicken pot pie. It's keeping warm in the oven."

"Very good." He leaned down to give a little tug on her tail, and laughed at the strangled whimpering sound that his pet made in response. "Is there something you want to ask me before I eat, girl?"

"P-please may I urinate?" she blurted immediately, her voice squeaking up an octave with urgency.

Jack still had hold of her tail. The hard plastic curve of the tail appeared affixed to the belt on the outside, but actually it was connected to the base of an anal plug that was set into the opening at the rear of the belt; not connected, but fit into it such that the plug could not be removed while the belt was on, and the belt could not be worn without the plug in place.

He'd made the whole thing himself, of course. Custom-fitted to his pet.

Jack rocked the tail back and forth, shifting the plug attached to it. Though his movements were gentle, he knew the feeling would not be; he'd run a solid metal core through the tail and the plug, so that it was all one mean curve, and just a little bit of movement would be enough to bully her insides with the unyielding silicone of the plug.

To his delight, the bitch's reaction was very visible. Her fingers curled into the linoleum and a tremor ran through her body. She looked extremely desperate for a pee--or an orgasm. Maybe both.

"Well, let's see," he said, and then let go of the hard plastic tail to rub a hand down the smooth skin covering her spine. She was well filled out now. When he'd grabbed her off the street, she'd been skinny enough to count her ribs and vertebrae.

He reached around under her next, caressing the softness of her belly. He couldn't really feel her full bladder through the flesh, but there was some theater in checking for it--and it was an important way to track her health, too; if he could easily feel it, that was probably an indication of a problem.

The bigger tell was in the protective clench and flinch of her abdominal muscles, the cute little grimace that pulled at the corner of her lips. Her whole body telegraphed her miserable anticipation of what was coming next.

Jack pressed in, hard, with the heel of his hand.

The bitch erupted into a series of pathetic whimpers, her whole body shivering. Jack had played with her like this often enough to know the signs: if she could, she'd be pissing herself right now, dribbling a little puddle all over her thighs and onto the floor.

He clucked his tongue. "Poor pet. You're very full, aren't you?" He rubbed her belly in slow, gentle circles as he spoke, a mockery of tenderness, never letting up the pressure on her abused bladder. "But look, the urethral plug is doing its job, isn't it? No mess to clean up. What do you say?"

"Th-th-thank y-you, Jack," she stammered out through her wavering whimpers.

"Good girl," he praised warmly, and then he pressed his lips to her cheek lovingly.

A damp sheen of distressed sweat was making itself known on her skin, and Jack finished the kiss by running the flat of his tongue up her cheek to taste it.

The whole while, his pet remained crouched obediently on the floor, shaking like a leaf as she withstood the agony of his attentions. The gorgeous muscles of her abdomen worked under his palm, her bladder cramping as it tried and failed to empty itself, blocked by the urethral plug that was being held firmly in place by the belt.

From here, Jack had options.

There was some appeal to the idea of lingering just like this: petting and caressing his pet, pressing on her soft and unprotected belly, for as long as it would take her to break down and beg. Then he could punish her for speaking out of turn. He could bring her down to the basement and strap her to her correction bench, paddle her until she cried, and then finally take out the plug and let her piss all over herself.

Or he could eat his dinner: he could take his time with it, ignore his pet as she waited and suffered silently on the floor. He didn't like to neglect her too often--it could be destabilizing, he'd found, could make her unpredictable and bitter--but the occasional reminder served well to keep her grateful for how much of his attention she usually received.

Both good options...But he didn't have the patience for either tonight. His cock was already growing hard, responding to the salty taste of her sweat, the frantic note of agony in her whimpering.

"Alright," he said finally, pushing himself to standing and grabbing her by the hair once more to pull her along.

She struggled to keep up with him, much of her graceful coordination lost in the wake of being so brutally tormented. Her crawl was more of a clumsy scramble as she followed him to the bathroom.

Not the nearest one, of course. The half-bath on the first floor was, in theory, for guests; in practice, Jack never had any of those, so it was mostly just for his own occasional convenience.

Either way, that bathroom was for the use of people. Not an appropriate place for his pet to relieve herself.

He towed her up the stairs, through the bedroom--his bedroom, though the bitch slept there as well, in the custom-built cage beneath the heavy bed frame--and into the master bath.

"Into the shower," Jack instructed, releasing his grip on her hair to begin shucking his clothes.

"Yes, Jack," she agreed, the words a sob, a pathetic anticipation of relief.

The sound was all the more delicious for the fact that she must know full well that Jack did not plan to grant her relief easily. She existed, after all, for his entertainment, and he mostly enjoyed her misery.

She pushed herself up on shaking legs and went to stand in the luxuriously large shower, assuming the correct position without needing to be told: back to the shower door, hands planted on the tiled wall, feet spread a bit further than shoulder-width apart. Waiting. Desperate.

Of course, Jack was impatient, but he wasn't going to rush.

He took a good minute to remove his clothes, folding his pants carefully and rolling up his belt as he removed them. Then he walked away, stepping into the bedroom to hang up his shirt, to toss his underwear into the hamper.

When he returned, his pet was exactly as he'd left her. She hadn't moved a muscle; she wasn't even looking over her shoulder to watch for him. She just stood where she'd been sent, head bowed in submission, waiting on his convenience.

His perfectly trained girl, being so good.

He turned the shower on her.

The bitch flinched at the cold spray raining down onto her. She uttered a desperate little whimper, her full bladder no doubt aggravated by the temperature change and by the sound of the water splattering on the tile.

By the time the water had warmed enough for Jack to join her, she looked quite wretched indeed: her drenched hair stuck to her face, giving her a bit of a wet rat look, as she couldn't push it back out of her eyes without leaving position. Her entire body continued to tremble in spite of the now-comfortable temperature of the shower. The plastic tail jutting out from her belt twitched in visible little movements, advertising that her anus was twitching and contracting around the plug.

"Poor creature," Jack cooed to her as he pressed close behind her, letting her feel the lingering threat of his fingers resting on her hips, the hot length of his cock between the cleft of her cheeks. "It's been a long day for you, hasn't it? I think we'll get that bladder of yours trained as well as the rest of you in time. Soon, you'll barely even feel the urge when I'm not home."

"Y-yes, Jack," she whispered.

The lock on the chastity belt was quite heavy. It was a serious padlock, designed not to be easily broken or picked, and it made a rather loud click when Jack unlocked it.

His pet responded with a sound of her own, a helpless little gasp.

Removing the belt, of course, took time. There was the plug in her rear, which needed to be worked out slowly; there was the urethral plug, which was not directly connected to the belt but which fit into a little slot at the front to hold it more firmly into place, and which needed to be un-slotted so that Jack didn't pull it out while removing the belt. He needed to be careful, too, not to catch any parts of the belt on his pet's piercings--the little series of rings that pierced her upper labia, forming a criss-crossed cage over her clitoris.

All made custom, mostly by Jack. He'd even done the piercings himself, right in the basement, with his pet strapped to the correction bench.

The bench was only to be used for punishments, of course, so first he'd needed a reason to punish her. That had been great fun; he suspected she still hadn't figured out that he'd planned the whole thing, pretending to forget about the vibrator that he'd left on high and trapped under her body as he fucked her, forcing her to come over and over until she was screaming and begging for him to stop in an agony of overstimulation.