2: Horse Of A Different Color

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Part 2: Continued from Prior Entry

by R.H.W. writing as Gulliver

They had done what so many people do when faced with something that doesn’t make sense. They found a simple solution and left it at that. If I had no dom and my time codes were missing, then they would just ignore them both and assume that they hadn’t been a problem. They weren’t letting me go. They were putting me out for rent.

- • -

Over time it all just became normal. It wasn’t a temporary craziness, it was just my life. And sometimes, when I could let go of what was being done to me, trotting along, the harness pulling firmly against my chest and shoulders, the buzzing of the insects and the smell of chamomile on the breeze, it felt good. Life was simple.

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How could it get simpler then this? If I had a good rider that day, all I had to do was pay attention and make my way and there was nothing serious to go wrong. Walk or trot or run, maybe stop in a field or by the road for a while.

Sometimes they’d race us, and I’ll pull as hard as I could, knowing the bite of a whip waited if I slacked and that I’d get a sugar cube or two afterwards if I did well.

And I felt fit, healthy. Kept on a diet of mostly crushed raw vegetables and water, working hard every day, I got healthier and healthier. A few times a rider had me washed, brushed, combed, then put in a clean harness with ribbons on it and if I was lucky enough to catch my reflection, I was amazed at how good I looked.

Some of the harnesses pulled at the elbow for high speeds and the curving hill trails meant I had to twist and pull from the waist to stay on the path. So my entire body was subject to demands that kept me aching some nights but in better shape every day. No gym was ever this tough or this effective. I had always been thin, and being tall had made me look even thinner. But now I was sculpted, with almost no fat at all, and my shoulders, which had always been narrow, were finally covered in a solid layer of muscle.

And the longer it went on, the better trained I was. Most of the riders knew what to do and every day got me more into the habits they wanted and broke me a little more of the things they didn’t. My feet grew tough until gravel felt just as good as the softest streets. My vision became almost unfocused, unimportant a lot of the time for anything but seeing changes in the road or pretty colors and shapes. Maybe you think that in my place you would resist. And a few times I did. But every hour I was under lock and key. All day I was in the eyes of a rider with a ready whip. The first time you do something wrong, perhaps you don’t know or don’t care. And punishment stings and maybe even makes you rebel again. But after a while you learn the rules and you know that you can’t get away and you won’t be let alone. They trained me well. Never look in somebody’s face. Don’t try to cover your body. Follow commands. Grunting, sighing, even whining or crying, are fine. Trying to talk isn’t.

Stand until told to kneel. Stay where you’re put. Never go up on sidewalks or indoors; stay in the road where you belong. Above all know your place. Eat and drink what you’re fed, poop and pee whenever you feel the need. Try to hold it in and you’re liable to get a pitcher of fish oil poured down your throat. Sleep when you’re told to; if you can’t, you’ll just get drugged and then you’ll hurt the whole next day. But what they really trained me in was not some particular thing. It was a growing need to know at any time that I was following directions. That somebody had chosen what I was doing at that moment and approved of how I was doing it.

In this world, anything not permitted was forbidden, and initiative was a trait to fear at all costs. Sometimes they’d take off a boot or mitt to clean it out and if I tried to use my hands or stand bootless I’d get shocked so hard I screamed in pain. After a while, they could even leave my mitts off for hours and I flinched at even the thought of using my hands. The stables had a kennel right by and occasionally, as a special treat, they would let a few of us go along, unhobbled, on long leashes and with small blinders, while they walked the dogs.

The chance to walk along in the fields was a thing I savored, as we all did, getting a rare chance to move a bit more freely but with the comforting pull of the leash to let me know I wasn’t doing anything wrong. One day they put me in a new kind of poncho, a little longer, a little heavier, and I realized that it was getting a bit colder these days. Summer was coming to an end and the town was getting quieter as the days passed. I knew this should matter to me but I couldn’t remember why. Things got wetter and darker, smelling of mulch and woodchips. The scent of fireplaces in use joined the rich range of daily experience. Birds got louder, harsher, with less singing and more caws and cries.

Sometimes now a few of us would be taken off to pull a freight cart, going to outbuildings deep in the hills or along town streets or even along echoey tunnels stretching far underground. Once a doctor came by and checked out all of us rentals. Petting us as he took blood, shined lights in our eyes, ran his arms along our bodies. A few times I thought I heard a special voice, a woman’s voice, crisp and familiar, but it was never just right.

Some days I spent the whole day at my post out front, as others were hired out but I wasn’t. The stable was a more peaceful place at night, with more and more paddocks empty and the pace of the nightly scrub down and morning prep getting more relaxed as the load got lighter.

Until one day I was left all alone in my stall all morning. I heard people walking around but nobody came by and took me out. Well into the day, with the stables warm and bright sun streaming in, a couple of keepers came by my stall and started taking everything off of me. Off came the whole harness. They took off my mitts and boots. A keeper sprayed me with soapy water and started scrubbing me down.

I was put in a poncho and led out front, but instead of being leashed to a post, they led me, completely unharnessed, right out into the street. I pulled back, afraid to be out unbound, but they were firm and lead me along, terrified and hunched over. The asphalt under my bare feet was cool and smooth, my body felt strangely loose, jangly and sloppy, without my normal bindings and coverings.

We walked for blocks to a cluster of buildings, just about the only place in town still busy with activity, with people coming and going and five or six of us tied out front.

But they didn’t tie me to a post, they pulled me in, trembling and sure I was about to be jolted or whipped hard, right indoors. It all felt tight and plastic and sharp-edged and filled with crazy shapes and sounds, things like ringing phones and people working at desks.

This wasn’t my place and I knew it. And worse, I could see a couple of real people looking at me with upset expressions, a few of them even angry.

I looked around, disoriented without instruction, until a hand fastened my leash to a chair leg and gave me a place to curl up. Then they started talking, mentioning my old name. A hand under my chin faced me up to look at them. I was scared to be looking at faces, I knew that was bad, so I tried to turn my face back down. “No, look up. Look at us, Up. Listen to what we are saying. Good boy. There we go.” A hand closed my mouth, which had hung open.

They were talking to me. Trying to explain things that made no sense to me anymore. It had been a long time since such complex things had mattered to me and I had trouble making sense of what they said.

I tried to focus my mind but it had been so long. I had learned not to think. Good ponies obey. Good ponies Do. Good Ponies don’t listen in on humans. Be a good pony.

It took time but they started to explain. Joanne really had thought that I would be let go the day that she had had to leave. She had been picking up my mail and keeping up my place, thinking that I was just away on some sort of work. That I had gotten back, gotten a gig, and left. But that had been four months ago. Four months! The problem was the contract we’d signed. They had to explain it to me all over again several times. We had signed papers that made me legally a minor and Joanne my guardian. She had durable power of attorney, able to write checks in my name, sell my apartment, anything. After all, for the duration of our time there, it had to be possible for her to make decisions for me.

The contract made this permanent “for so long as The Festival continues” and we’d both signed. But somewhere in all those pages of jargon it said that “The Festival” was defined as the length of time the village stayed open. We thought that meant all summer. It didn’t. The village was permanently occupied. Had been for over twenty years.

And I was an animal. It was in the contract. Until it was cancelled they were to treat me as a submissive under contract to be used for only animal roles. The collar would stay. In truth, in the eyes of the people who had founded and ran this place, this wasn’t only law, it was their philosophy.

I was legally now a minor. I’d certified that I was legally incompetent and that Joanne was the only one empowered to reverse it. I couldn’t write a check, use a credit card, drive, anything, not without her permission.

And she was halfway across the country. The law said that she had to had to come back out here and sign the voiding papers in person.

They called her. They talked to her. They never even put me on the phone. She was busy. Really busy. And I knew better than anybody that with her clients, if she lit out for a few days unexpectedly she’d go out of business.

So what were they going to do with me? The visitor season was ending and the public stables were closed until the next summer. The last summer people were packing up to go.

I hadn’t made a decision on my own bigger then where to sit in my paddock in so long that I couldn’t make sense of this at all. So they tied me to a post in front of the office and went off looking for someone to take me home with them until this could all be worked out.

What an astounding luxury to be out of all of my harnesses. Just a poncho and leash. Sitting on the curb scared me so I sat in the road. A couple of people came by and switched my collar for a heavier one. It smelled funny and felt tight under my chin. They had me stand up and turn around a few times. Then they sat me back down and left me.

After a while someone tapped me on the shoulder and I looked up. Somebody took my chin again, made me look up at him and two women standing beside him. As he talked to me we started to walk down a path into the trees.

I stumbled a lot as my bare feet kicked up dirt and I kept stopping in fear. How could I be out of the stable off a carriage without my boots on? Any minute I expected a reprimand. Even worse, he had me walking upright without a harness on. I had seen the punishments for submissives caught like this and knew that they cried themselves to sleep for days afterwards, so I trembled in fear as we went.

“You will be going with them now. They’ll hold you until you are let go. It will be much easier for you now. No more pulling carts and hard labor, just lying around all day. Just a big lazy housepet.”

He turned to them. “You’ll have him for at least three weeks. Ms. Polaski said she can’t come out until then or later. You’ll probably have to retrain him a bit. No permanent body modifications.”

Also, he’s contracted as an animal. You are agreeing to keep him as a pet. Tricks are fine and minor tasks like fetching the paper, but he’s not supposed to be used as a houseslave or anything too sexual.”

If we can, we’ll send someone out in a few weeks to see how things are working out and help to get this mess set straight.”

We’ve fit him with a remote use collar. You can use it to give him small shocks and it will tighten until it chokes if he gets too far from the house. Be sure that you have at least two broadcasters in your house because if they turn off or break, he’ll be gasping even if he’s right in your living room.”

He lead me out into bright sunlight and I realized that we were back in the parking lot, back where this had all begun.The cars were mostly gone and the space seemed immense, threatening in its scale and unpredictability.

My leash was handed over to one woman and I was so grateful when she put me back down in my knees, back in my place and safer from punishment.

He turned down to me, “Now, boy, go with them, they’ll keep you safe and keep you out of the way. They’re doing us and you a big favor by agreeing to this so be good, do as they say, and we’ll all be fine.”

We were in front of a large SUV and one woman was opening the rear door, revealing a big cage filling the back. It smelled like sweat and dogs and a little like the stables. They took off my poncho and shooed me into the cage, where I curled up, confused and overwhelmed. My leash was snapped off and the door closed and latched. With nothing on but my collar, I was nervous, expecting punishment at any moment; being without mitts or hobbles was sure to get me hurt bad. But I couldn’t do anything about it and I had been left like this by real people. When a blanket was pulled over the cage and I was left in a dark warm spot, I fell asleep.

A while later I woke up, cramped up from sleeping in my cage, feeling the vibrations of the road through the carpeting under me. I could still smell all the stable smells and some kind of oily stuff. The motor hummed and the road sounded smooth and the tires sounded firm. I rubbed my side against the bars to scratch myself. The bottom of the cage was soft and clean. The blanket smelled nice. I chewed on a bit hanging down. It tasted okay.

This wasn’t some little fifteen-minute drive. We were travelling hundreds of miles. I could hear them talking up front, their voices were a contralto murmur along with the rumble and hum of the road and the sound of the engine. I felt us pull up a long gravel drive and come to a stop.

The engine switched off and the rear door unlatched. I felt wind and chilly raindrops against my skin as the blanket was pulled off the cage and the cage unlatched. A hand came in and held my head while a nice-smelling leather leash was clipped to my collar. They led me through a dark rainy day across a large garden and up to a big and bright house. I could hear people inside and see lots of side paths off the one we walked.

As we came to the door I heard scrabbling footsteps and a jingling coming from the other side. When Ellen, the larger of the two women, opened the door, waiting for her, eagerly looking up from a humbled pose on the floor, was a naked woman who was almost unrecognizable as human with all the ways her appearance had been changed.

Ellen and Marie held me there in the doorway for quite a long time, encouraging each of us to look at the other as they firmly puched me down to my hands and knees before them all. Her scalp reached down almost to her eyes, and patches of hair were all over her face. Fur ran in a stripe a foot wide down her back, ending in a tail as long as her arm, wagging at the end of her furry rump. Little bells hung from rings in her nipples, ears, pussy, and off of a large heavy ring in her nose. Her hands looked strange and I realized that her fingers had been somehow attached to each other, leaving her with two big fingers and a long thumb on each hand, like a cartoon character. Her hands were furry too, with stripes reaching up her arms and only fading out at her elbows.

Her legs had been shortened and her elbows changed somehow, making her look comfortable on all fours. Her upper lip was split and changed, and her face seemed darker through the fur. I could see a big thick tongue as she panted.

A large brand on one thigh, an interwoven E and M, could be seen as she stretched and preened before me. Her collar had not bells, but charms and bright costume jemstones. More of them dangled from other piercings all over her body. Her fur wasn’t all the same length, clipped shorter here and there.

Decorated like a little girl’s charm bracelet, changed in ways that could never be changed back and meant she would never be able to live as a free normal human again, she abased herself delightedly before her owners as Marie scratched her neck and petted her back.

And as I looked, clearly these changes, weren’t all useless. Her ears had been made bigger and longer but I could see that she turned her head to listen, and that her ears perked up when one of her mistresses addressed her; she seemed to hear clearly things a normal person wouldn’t notice at all. When she reached forward, her tail reached back and I could see whiskers sticking out of her face, being used for balance and control like a cat’s.

From deep inside of me, my old, thinking self rose up from inside me and made me want to do something. Some part of me was terrified, some part of me screamed within me though all that came out was a whine. But what could I do? I coouldn’t think at all; my mind swirled with incoherent images, nothing even close to even words, just nervousness, fear, confusion. After months of conditioning, with the delightedly submissive pet in front of me looking up in open hope of a command, and the firm hand on my leash as I knelt there, naked and obedient, unable to think at all.

Then the pet in front of me, came forward as I knelt there and her expression changed. She looked in my eyes, raised her back, pulled her arms wider at her sides, and barked at me. At the same time hands pushed me further down, pressing me low to the ground, looking up at her. There was a pack here and I was lowest ranking. And suddenly I was afraid of the woman before me. There were sharp teeth in that mouth - she showed them to me now. when I tried to raise myself a bit she growled and I sank back down.

While my old mind tried to marshal its resources, I collapsed before my new mistresses and their pet, whimpering and peeing myself as I looked up into the amused, strong, confident eyes of the women who looked back down at me. They were in charge, I was nothing, all I hoped for was to be taught what to do.

- • -

My retraining started right then and there. I was no longer a ponyboy and what I had been implacably conditioned to do was now forbidden. at first I was on two legs but each day I spent a little more time on hands and knees and when I wasn’t somehow I knew to hunch low. At the town I was used to relieving myself whenever any urge struck. This was encouraged, even required. After all, what more effectively could shortcircuit any remaining feelings of dignity then realizing that you had just peed down your own leg and hadn’t even noticed?

But it wasn’t until then that I understood how hard that was to reverse. As survivors of serious injuries have long known, if you stop paying attention to a bodily function, you lose control of it.

So they started housetraining me, putting out newspaper and taking me on short walks. It humiliated me all over again that I couldn’t help myself. As I wet my doggie bed yet again, or pooped on the living room floor, it was clear that I needed to be trained. It was only reasonable that I should have to do what they said. It was only logical that I be punished and rewarded by people so profoundly my superiors. Marie was tougher but she gave me more treats if I made her really happy. Ellen was calmer, she scratched right where my collar itched. But when she got angry she hit hard. I always trembled a bit when I heard her voice sound angry. If she slammed the door I hid.

And every day, as I proved unable to be competent even as a pet dog, I became more submissive to their desires. After all, clearly it was my natural place in the world to be under their authority. I needed to be ruled and couldn’t be trusted on my own. What grounds could I ever have to resist?

Teffy, who had met me at the door, was nice to me as long as I was respectful of her superior place. She played with me and waited patiently as I stumbled and bumped into things. Sometimes they walked us together. I hoped to be allowed a longer leash like hers if I was good enough. Sometimes born dogs walked with us. They were good to me too, though like Teffy, they made sure I was respectful. I learned to be a good junior pet, licking their faces, lying on my back, my belly open, if they were angry with me, keeping low and with my eyes down, with only a short growl or a second of exposed teeth needed to remind me when I forgot.

After the first few days they did what they thought best to fit me to my new role. My inner ears were stimulated with some device that changed my center of balance. Something was injected into the ligaments and tendons of my feet and legs, stretching my toes out and pulling in my legs so being on my hands and knees felt natural and proper, while trying to stand up was an absurd exercise, wobbling for a moment before I fell back down.

Another injection improved my sense of smell, loosening up and sensitizing my nose and mouth somehow and leaving me compulsively sniffing things. My tongue expanded somehow and every taste bud was as alive as a baby’s. Almost nothing ever smelled bad, just fascinating, and I pressed my face into anything that promised some new scent, licking it if I were allowed. With my mouth wide open and my nostrils flared, I was constantly distracted, drooling as I went.

Of course, with my mouth distorted, my tongue enlarged, and my breathing almost like panting, I could no more speak then I could have with a gag in my mouth. My rare attempts at speech left me looking up from my place on the floor, drool running even faster down my jaw, as what came out sounded pretty much like “Aa eh, e aothu e thetha”.

Whoever I was closest to would look down at me indulgently, knowing that I would eventually give up as these efforts were always very painful. Then she would pet me fondly and go on with whatever she was doing. Sometimes Teffy would bark if it looked like I was about to try to talk.

Ellen and Marie spoke to Joanne and she said that it would be a while before she could come out. They were nice to me and let me hear on speakerphone while Joanne explained that she had subletted out my apartment, found somebody else to cover for my business, and generally shut down my life until this could all be worked out.

Since neither of us had close family, this wasn’t much of an issue, but she knew more then enough about my life to send out emails and letters to my relatives and friends that made it look like I had burned out at last and decided to go on a long-term retreat and might not be back for a very long time.

She was surprised at how readily everybody accepted the story. What she didn’t know was that I had had a breakdown a few years before. She knew that I was exhausted, but she didn’t know how much.

At the time she had been away and I had been left to face a brutal succession of crises, building up to having somebody try to steal the photography equipment from my studio one night. I had fought him off, at the cost of a knife wound and a dislocated arm, but it had been the last straw, leaving me with no will left at all to resist much of anything. And, in the months after, as I had faced the daily excruciating pain from that fight, I had constantly asked myself, was it worth it?

That was when I had started playing at bondage with Joanne, telling her that the healing scars were from a work mishap. In a certain sense, you say that I had been looking for a chance to surrender it all this whole time.

After having spent years creating Teffy, and having had Carlin, their house slave, for two decades, they knew well how to make me into what they wanted. They enjoyed figuring out how complete a dog they could make out of me in the time that they had.

Putting my hands back into mitts was almost a formality. After the previous months, I was well trained not to ever use my fingers as a human does. So they took the mitts off, finding it more impressive that I still treated them as paws then it would have been had I been forced by equipment into doing so. Even my remote control collar was replaced with a simple leather one. A few close calls and conscientious training by my mistresses meant that I trembled and moaned in fear if we even got close to the borders of their land.

They knew lots of other ways to shape me. They also felt justified in implanting a short tail over my rump. After all, simple surgery would undo what they had done and when they combined it with a strip of fur, blond to match my head hair, running from a broad swath above my rear and reaching well up my back, broadening again above my shoulders, it made me look much more like what they had in mind. They also knew, as I discovered, that the technique they used left the skin there very sensitive, and I found myself always hungry to be petted or scratched. I soon considered a good petting a high reward. Ellen could scratch me for an hour and still enjoy it. I had to whine a bit or beg sometimes with Marie but she knew just where my favorite spots where.

My nose was pierced and a ring set in it. The same was done with my tongue. A classic training technique has long been to keep a pet on a short leash throughout the day, teaching him to heel reflexively and without pause. After all, with a four foot leash, a pet has less than a second to start following his owner or feel the leash pull tight. They bettered this technique, using a three foot leash attached not to a collar, but to my tongue or nose. I had to learn to obey and submit instantly, without any thought at all. They moved, I followed. Each of them kept me with them for several days like this, twenty-four hours a day, until I was completely and reflexively obedient. I followed them through their workday (each worked from home some days) through meals and workouts, and even to the bathroom, my head pulled down when they wanted privacy. Not for an instant could I let my attention waver or my submission be less then total.

They trained me to obey voice and hand commands. To roll over, to sit. They even began to teach me circus tricks, keeping me on a giant ball or jumping through a flaming hoop. They trained me to wag my tail when I was happy. Teffy could curl her tail all the way under her.

When they were teaching me tricks, they sometimes gave me a doggie biscuit if I was really good. Since these were the only savory food I got and they always came before a good petting session, after a while just seeing a biscuit would make me look up hopefully and drool even more. Marie always carried special peanut butter ones with crunchy bits. They made my mouth feel clean.

I was given a nice doggie bed in the living room to sleep on, was walked twice a day (three times if I begged), and had an easy life, such as it was. They kept me healthy, treated me well, and very effectively taught me to forget that I had any other life. Even when their friends started coming over, after all of my time in the valley I was used to being publicly owned. I would wander through a party, begging treats or sitting at the feet of an obliging guest. I could eat food if it fell on the floor though Devin, a beagle who also wandered parties, was usually faster than me. Even worse, Gracie, an old shepard, would wait for me to find something, ome over, and make me give it to her

Since their wealth came from a chain of obedience schools they had founded in their teens, I and the others they kept weren’t only a hobby, but as advertisements, and at most gatherings, the time would come that I would be brought forward to do tricks. And when the day came, over two months after I first came to them, that they branded me, a little one on my thigh, they said it made sense as advertising of my complete submission to them for such demonstrations. After all, an actor may agree to do tricks for money, and a fetishist might have agreed to the fur and tail, but the brand, discrete though it was, made it clear to everybody I was shown off to that I was theirs.

For once they spoke to me, to my face, and explained that since they had gone far beyond what they had originally agreed to do, they were entitled to do some more serious stuff with me while they had custody. And wasn’t it simply fair that how much they did for themselves match how much extra time they were holding me? After all, it was all reversible.

It was about that time that I realized that they had somehow been backing up their training with drugs. Maybe even with more. I had vague memories of strange sessions and a sense of having sometimes lost hours or even days. But even suspecting that, I had still become trained to the point of phobic. Even just thinking about being dressed in human clothes put me into a panic attack. Wallets scared me, as did credit cards, keys, and half a dozen other things.

Having reversed my previous state, I could no longer pee or poop at all unless I was leashed, with somebody holding it, as I discovered when Ellen left my leash tied to a tree one afternoon to take a phone call and I waited, helpless and cramped, until she came to get me that night.

Cars scared me and the few times they brought me to friend’s houses between going in a car and crossing the edges of their land, they had to feed me pills to keep me calm until they handed me out into somebody’s house.

Even my mistresses hadn’t expected their training to work as well as it had. They had tried some things out on me, things they expected to be effective for a few weeks, and even they were amazed when months later I showed no signs of reverting. It was only over time that they realized that the training they were giving me there was far more powerful then it would normally be. After all, nobody in particular had been in charge of me in all of my time as a ponyboy. I had been left to be passed from rider to rider for months. So I no longer obeyed a particular mistress or a particular command. I simply obeyed.

And the training they expected to use to keep me submissive for a few months or perhaps a year was as deeply etched in my brain as the compulsion to breath. They had thought it was a funny prank. A good chance to see an adult professional truly live some time believing being a dog was natural. And they looked forward to laughing about it in a few years when I had gone back to my life, still with the fading brand on my leg and an occasional tendency to wag my rear when I was happy.

They had gotten a human who could no more walk away from them then he could walk on air.

My mistresses started calling around, getting more details from Joanne, digging the truth out from the people of The Festival. Marie and Ellen had been lied to when they had taken me on. They had been told that my condition was a result of a minor misunderstanding, that I had been lost in the records for a few weeks. Joanne had been told that Marie and Ellen were upset at what they were being expected to do and not to discuss with them how I got there or when.

Little by little they figured out what had actually happened. My intent of a four day time away from my life. My stressed out state that even Joanne hadn’t really understood. The screwups and failed handoffs. My months of constant training in the valley, and then their own intensive approach. They had treated me as a conventional man in a contorted condition, and in the state I was actually in, they had finished the job of completely and permanently reducing me to the state of owned submissive.

- • -

It was late fall when Joanne finally came out. The first I knew of it was when she came in the front door and found me there at her feet.

When she came in the door she held out a doggie treat to me and in the shocked look in her eyes I understood once and for all that it was all true.

Because there I was, naked as only an animal is naked, collared and at her feet, looking up at her and wagging my tail and drooling as she held out the treat. Hoping to get it, I sat up and begged, managing to stay upright for only a few seconds before sinking back, but with my attentive eyes never leaving not her eyes, but the hand that held the biscuit.

Nobody could have seen that and mistaken me for a functioning adult. I was a housepet, body and soul. No closer to the friend that she had left behind over seven months before then I was to a giraffe.

In the few seconds it took me to look up and see who actually stood before me, I could tell, not only by her look by by the smell of her fear and rejection, that I was just an animal before her now.

And even worse, as I looked up at her, I saw her mood shift. Having gotten over the shock she felt at first, she found that she liked me like this. She had walked in the door already planning how we were going to sit down together and write the followup letters. A trunk of my clothes was in Joanne’s car. But that just didn’t make sense anymore.

This was a whole new situation and she might as well enjoy her vacation for a while and decide what to do about it.

I could never get my normal life back. Even I could see that now. However it had happened, whoever had expected what, I was changed in ways that couldn’t be reversed. How could I walk down the street knowing that at any command from any person I would be down on the sidewalk before them, ready to obey?

I had been trained for a stunt. I would be this way for a lifetime. I needed to be kept. I needed to be kept naked. I needed to be walked, to be fed, to be kept under a strong hand. I would never again be able to hold a job. For that matter, I would probably never again be able to hold a fork.

Even if they were to free me, the best I could do was find a good mistress to collar me and make me her own. But what condition was I in to find anything?

While Joanne walked about and got used to seeing me this way, little bits of this seeped into my mind. I lay at her feet as she sat by the fire. She had me beg for scraps at meals. She had me fetch her paper. Once she went for a long walk through the grounds putting panniers on my back to carry her lunch and binoculars and journal, letting me run free in a field before putting me back on my leash and heading back to the house.

At dinner they would all discuss what to do with me now. Ellen and Marie suggested that she give me permanently to them. They liked me, felt that they were good for me. Once they had me permanently collared they would have me “properly” changed to what they had in mind. They would have my fingers removed, lengthen my tail. They were thinking of giving me ears like Teffy’s but they felt that I would look sweeter with long floppy ones that hung down at the sides of my head. The changes to my mouth and nose would be extended and made permanent. My tongue lengthened. There was talk in the community of shows for submissives and they said I had promise as a show pet. They also said that there was now a serious market in human pets being sold and bought. Enough police and judges and people like that were going along, or even involved, to make it safe and they said I would bring a lot in my current state. Maybe a few hundred thousand. Joanne was curious about this, having never made a lot of money and watching her pensionless future loom up closer every day.

But they also said that people who bought pets sometimes were a lot harsher with them. There were tales of limbs removed, pain devices being implanted. A few slaves had been tortured, even killed. And while the people who did it were banned from the community, they couldn’t be brought to trial, After all, one serious trial would expose the whole system and while such things had been successfully covered up in the past, nobody considered the risks worth it. The community had its own, covert kind of law enforcement, unforgiving and harsh. But nothing could entirely prevent the occasional abuses.

All of them agreed that my penis should be shortened. After all, I would never get to use it again, and by cutting it down to an inch or two I would become more of a “setter” and be less messy when I did my business. They also agreed that I should be castrated as soon as my owner was chosen. Unless my permanent mistress had something special in mind, it was just common sense to “fix” a pet that wasn’t going to be bred.

Joanne said that she might take me home, keep me as hers. She wanted to know what I could be used for if she did that. Ellen and Marie talked for a while and said that over time I might get back partial use of my hands. With the drugs discontinued, my mouth and nose would go partway back to the way they had been and I would get back limited speech.

But most of it was permanent. They had even paid for a brain scan and the results showed changes in my brain’s chemistry and behavior on a scale usually associated with brain injury or severe torture.

I would never be anything but a pet, but I could be trained to do simple tasks, even household chores. By now my mind was utterly subject to owner control and the same techniques that could shorten a penis could now lengthen it or change it however she pleased. So, if she chose, she could look forward to a custom tailored, utterly obedient and reliable bed partner for as long as I lived.

The only problem was that I was now rather widely known. By the rules of the community, I was unclaimed; available. While I had a small brand, I still hadn’t been formally collared. Until I was permanently collared, until a lifetime owner had me branded with their full mark, I was subject to seizure and would be the property of whoever took me.

If somebody were to break in while the mistresses were away and take me, they would be entitled to some cash compensation but I would be owned by whoever had taken me. Someone had to make a decision and until I had been officially collared and branded, they could only hope that nothing went wrong and maybe not take me around as much.

After a few days of such talks, I knew that I had no good options but all I could do was be a good pet and hope for the best.

The next week, Joanne decided that she needed to think about it some more. She looked down and looked into my eyes. “You’re a good puppy now, aren’t you? Do you want to come home with me?”I tried to speak and they all laughed. Ellen had me sit while they said goodbye and Joanne said she’d be back when she had some time again. Maybe in the early spring. My collar was released as she walked away and I bounded after her, crying and trying to make her understand that I wanted her to take me. She laughed sadly and petted me one last time. “Oh, you still are my Sweetie deep down in there, aren’t you? Well, I’ll think about it. And maybe I’ll take you home and keep you next time.” I lay down in the path and whimpered as she walked away.

- • - As the weather grew colder I grew more afraid, more confused. My mistresses didn’t walk me as far or as long, so I was mostly housebound, and since I couldn’t even turn a doorknob by myself, I mostly spent my days lying wherever they put me, unless somebody brought out a ball or other toy and played with me.

Over the holidays, somebody came to visit with their six-year old niece and she played with me all day, finding me far easier to deal with then all the serious grownup conversation going on everywhere else. She even taught me some new tricks and tried to teach me to fetch snowballs. She smelled like sugar and milk and soap and even when she was away I stayed where she had been to be near the smell of her. The adults watched with wary amusement. Nobody knew quite what it would mean, but everybody knew that she and the other children like her would grow up with different attitudes then their parents.

After all, if she had had a grown man as her obedient pet, naked and humble before her, she would certainly never be afraid of the mysteries of sex or manhood in the same ways. No man could ever intimidate her in quite the same ways they had women in generations past since a certain part of her would always look at big hairy men and find it strange that nobody had stripped and collared them yet.

Nobody was surprised when she rolled me over one day and played around with my penis and balls. She was curious and this was her chance to explore. Like a cross between a man and a St. Bernard, I was there to order around and cuddle by the fire with and play games with. She brought me candy, something I hadn’t had even a bit of in a long time, and I sat at her feet at every meal, following her around as long as she stayed in our house.

When she finally left, I watched her go, the ribbons she had tied in my collar still fresh against my fur. The rest of the winter was hard and fearful. I was punished more frequently, becoming disobedient sometimes, and moody. My mistresses were very understanding and started giving me timeouts, putting me face against the wall to calm down. They knew why I was upset and they weren’t too strict if they didn’t have to be.

Of course, they still kept training me. It was obvious now that this was my permanent life and for my own good I had to be disciplined sometimes and made obedient. I did my best to be good. To obey and learn. But I wanted Joanne to come and take me. I wanted to feel her locking a collar on me once and for all. Sometimes I was bad just because I needed to know that they were there. Nothing is crueler to any pet then to ignore them when they need to be punished. Sometimes a pet aches to know that he is owned, and that his owner is there, and that the rules are still the rules. He needs to be punished so that he can feel safe in the knowledge that he understands what those rules are. He pushed a little, nothing happened. He pushed a little more, he got punished a bit. He disobeyed a lot and got properly punished. Now he can rest. Now he knows where the boundaries are. What is allowed and what isn’t. And he can sleep safe and happy, knowing that he understands what is expected of him.

They understood that, and over time I grew to feel safer again.

I had almost forgotten all of that when, one warm, sunny day, I smelled Joanne coming up the drive. I caught it on the wind and lost it again. So I lifted up my nose and sniffed around and sure enough, there it was again. It was her!

I went to the door and waited to be let out. Carlin let me out and I went as far down the drive as I was allowed, waiting for her to show up. And in a few more minutes, there she was, walking up the path and smiling and happy to see me. She bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Here you are my good boy! How have you been? Are you my good boy? You gonna roll over for me? Yes, yes, that’s my boy!”

I looked and sniffed and rubbed against her and she petted me and even rolled in the grass with me for a minute. She came inside with me and I followed her everywhere she went from then on.

Like the time before, for a few days, she kept me at a bit of a distance. She wanted to see what my condition was and she wanted to talk out her options. Bringing me back with her wasn’t looking practical since her house simply wasn’t that big and her income wasn’t either. She kept saying that if she didn’t make all that much for one, how could she have enough for two? Marie and Ellen had a party so Joanne could meet some more people and see how they treated me and how I interacted with them. She had been thinking of selling me and they wanted her to get a sense of some of the more promising possible owners.

One European couple appealed to her. They owned lots of land, had half a dozen human pets already, were wealthy, involved, and kind. They were somewhat eccentric, wanting to have the rest of my fur implants engineered to match their furniture, and in the habit of trying out odd diets on their pets for long periods of time, but basically honorable and reasonable.

A group of women from an all-woman coop has come by. Their community was growing fast and they didn’t want their children growing up never having seen a man. They had heard of the experience with the six year old and wanted to train me back up to doing simple chores, but also as a sort of living exhibit of a tamed and obedient man that their girls could play with and use. One woman who was openly interested was a successful business owner. Overweight, very busy, and somewhat plain, she had never found a worthwhile man to spend her life with. She already had a live-in servant, but that was all he was. She wanted a pet. An obedient man to serve her all of her days.

Both she and the coop planned to have me gelded and put in a chastity belt. The coop wanted to prevent any possible accusations of sexual misconduct, the businesswoman simply preferred to have one more way to ensure my obedience.

A well-known man in the scene wanted to buy me for an experiment of his. He planned to give me as a pet to his troop of gorillas. He was having remarkable luck teaching them sign language and wanted to test his theory that human and animal behavior were largely a product of circumstance. His gorillas already kept several dogs and a cat and I would be given to the troop as a new addition, already leashed and trained and certain to give off enough submissive behaviors and pheromones to be safe where a more conventional man might be in danger.

Joanne spoke to them all, liked them all, promised to be in touch. For another week or so after that she stayed around, uncertain of what to do, keeping me around, at her feet, along on her walks. She let me sleep at the foot of her bed and occasionally kept me short-leashed for a while, training me to see again her as my primary keeper.

Then she left.

Summer was in full bloom when my mistresses took me and sat me down to talk to me.

They said that Joanne was taking her time, maybe too much time, visiting the homes of each of my possible owners, seeing how they lived and how they treated their current pets.

Months were passing and it was time to start fixing me up properly. They scheduled in the first round of surgery, giving me a longer, more “doggie”-like nose, and adding more fur along my legs and arms. Money was put aside in an escrow account in Joanne’s name, starting the process of their formally buying me.

Over time my back had gotten more and more painful. Like a dachshund, I wasn’t really proportioned right to be on my hands and knees and my knees and arms were certainly suffering for it too. In the next operation my spine was braced from within and curved a bit downwards. It made my belly stick out some and my rear and face stick up, but it cut the stress and the pain down quite a lot. My tail was made longer and thicker. Like Teffy’s it would balance the load and bring me closer to the look they had in mind. At the last minute they decided to make the fur on my tail thick and fuzzy, like a squirrel’s. It would look very cute and make me distinctive on the swiftly-forming show circuit.

The first round of surgery was done on my legs, making them shorter to start the process of my walking comfortably from then on on hands and feet rather then hands and knees.

I couldn’t move much, and was heavily sedated as they were doing the surgery in quick rounds and the pain was crippling, even with the medication. So I was barely aware when Joanne showed up one late summer day and announced that she was taking me home. I barely felt it as she locked a permanent collar on me and declared me her pet for life.

- • -

She had never been completely comfortable with my being a voiceless, opinionless, pet. She had been my closest friend and she would now be a good owner. I would still be her pet, and she would ensure that I remembered my place and was respectful and obedient. But she would let me have a bit of my mind back.

She was going to discontinue the drugs that deformed my speech, and even with my modified face and timidly obedient mind, I would get back the vocabulary of a two year old. She might even let me make my own choices sometimes, allowing me to choose the color of my leash or what games she would play with me.

She would encourage me to use my hands as well as I could, and we would all see how much I could throw off a phobia that really had never been that firmly impressed by Marie and Ellen in the first place. She liked the rest of the modifications, especially the tail, and had me covered entirely in fur, with a white belly and lighter paws. My legs and back are balanced and I have for years now been as comfortable on all fours as any other pet. More, in fact, then some.

She had my ears raised up some with a bit of floppiness at the top. She likes to scritch me there and pull my ears back against my head.

She got a place in the country, where we can roam the woods together in the summer. She doesn’t let me eat most of the things I pick up with my wonderful long tongue, but I know, as her fingers go in my mouth, that she does it for my own good.

And that is how I live now. It has been twenty years since Joanne collared me. My brand is big and proud and I am grateful for it every day. Human pets have been discovered by the press by now. When the numbers went from dozens to thousands, the secrets couldn’t be kept any longer. While I am a special case, almost all are fully consensual and very happy, with the new MRI-based lie detectors ensuring that the Oath Of Full Service is never sworn under compulsion.

Within a few years of my collaring I had back partial use of my hands and I became ever less of a financial burden and more of a help. I clean the house where I can, fetch the paper, help in the garden, and do my best to be useful. I am even sent out of the house by myself sometimes, going to neighborhood stores or to restaurants, where they take the money from the little pocket on my collar and put stuff for the house in my pack. Some places even give me treats.

My mistress says I have the spirit of an ideal nineteen-fifties housewife. She says that this is good thing. She also say that with my help, she is more relaxed and has far more time. She says this is a big part of why she is able to make so much more money now. Since the changes in the law back in 2018, my mistress doesn’t have to keep me in hiding as much, so now I am always free to play in the yard and do errands further from home.

Clothes still scare me, but my wise lady got me a poncho just like the one I wore all those years back in the valley. She had it made a little longer and I can bear it for a few hours. She even dresses me up in costumes at parties, though usually she just decorates me in garlands and paint. All these years have kept me free from almost all the stresses I would have suffered if I had stayed in my normal life, and with my food and activities all chosen for me, I have the body of a much younger man, though, of course, somewhat different from most.

As you can see, my speech is just fine and I think that my fur is quite attractive. My mistress prefers it dyed in these colors and it delights her to chose my larger collar for the day. My permanent one is quite narrow, though being titanium, it can be. It was one of the first to be decoratively engraved. The links are wonderful, though my lady keep the fur around my neck short to keep it from catching in them. I hope that you have enjoyed hearing my story. It is always my goal to please.

Comments

I realize stories like this are probably not written for me (I read them from the perspective of the owner, not the pet), but rather for the person who craves to be so mindlessly, instantly obedient as to lose the basic quality of humanity.

I like pets. I enjoy reading stories about human pets, and have made the requisite trips to PetSmart for collars, leashes, pet bowls and toys. I recently laid in a small supply of graham cracker biscuits because it just didn’t feel right not to have some sort of little nonsexual treat for my pet to beg for, and my boy has taken to barking for me before signing off at night because anticipating my wishes is his job, and I had asked so often.

But I like my pets human. For me, that is the appeal. If I wanted a dog, I’d buy a dog. I often do very well with the first chapter of stories like this, but they lose me when the protagonist becomes permanently modified.

I can see the attraction; as this author writes, you can never go back. It’s a symbol of commitment. And I suppose losing one’s mind and becoming simply a loved little thing could be seductive. But I want a human. Not some odd constructed chimera (OK, maybe just a little tail to wag. Maybe.)

I value my mind a good deal (it’s my greatest asset, and how I earn my living) and I find the concept of dealing with a human pet without one profoundly painful. (Such a pet would, of necessity, be any use only to a fairly wealthy owner; it seems to me a shame to reduce a pet to something whose ability to serve me is limited to looking cute and possibly fetching the paper.)

I want my pet to know what I’m doing to him and why. I want him to be able to tell me what he’s going through. And I want him to let me do it anyway. I enjoy reducing a man to a little puddle. I suppose chimera pet fantasies are about reducing a person to a little puddle permanently. But once that’s accomplished, you can’t do it any more. And I would miss that.

I am probably thinking about this way too much, and I don’t want to belittle people who do dream of this sort of thing. But it’s not for me.

I suspect for many men the image of perpetual pet hood is soothing, relaxing: a loss of all responsibilities.

I’ve had some pretty extreme lifetime slavery fantasies. And they’ve included some very stringent training and conditioning but I always back off even when I’m just dreaming. I can’t really imagine not wanting to be me.

Or wanting it to not be variable and often challenging. I can’t imagine reducing my personality that way or reducing myself to just one role, kink or fetish.

Especially now that I know what it can be like in real life with an interesting partner. A smart women with an lively imagination can give you too many interesting experiences.

Likewise I don’t want to seem to be diminishing the story or those who take pleasure in it.

Thinking too much? Is there such a thing? ;-)

Dear R. and Richard, Yes, all of your points make a lot of sense. It was pretty important to me that all of the women in charge of this guy’s life are pretty appalled when they realize what’s happened to him. Even with it being way over into fantasy territory it was crucial to me to make the point that the extremity of his condition is a result of miscommunications, a coverup by the people from the Festival, and plain old unanticipated consequences. I think he’s much more at peace at the end of the story then at his most crippled state. His most extreme condition is meant to be a terrifying thing.

On the other hand, when I did used to spend extended periods (never more than eighty-something consecutive hours) as a pet, the woman who kept me got more and more prone to talking about having my face tattooed to look like a dog’s, having whiskers implanted, and so on. Since she had her share of tats and a favorite parlor and was very consciously and skillfully training me to reflexively obey her in anything, I wasn’t entirely sure she was fantasizing. This was an amazing turn on. It also terrified me. My nightmares in that period got pretty raw.

But anyway, I think that, as least as far as she was concerned, if she had thought that she could get away with it, she would have come pretty close to the situation in this story. And if I had known that it was reversable and had somehow had the time, I might have gone along to a remarkable degree. In fact, I have thought a lot about getting a little tail, using the existing coccyx and one of several hair transplant techniques.

As both of you have pointed out, at least from the sub’s perspective, this is all about escape. The more extreme the transformation, the greater the liberation from the sense of obligation. It’s the ultimate vacation for a true Type A.

I guess that I’m rambling a bit. Sorry. But one last thing. Could either or both of you do me the considerable favor of describing the viewpoint character? Age, education, appearance, background, where he’s from. Anything like that. I’ve been puttering around with this story since, IIRC, 1999, and I’ve always had a very clear image of this guy. What does he look like to you?

Thanks. And thanks to Richard for posting it. It looks great.

-Gulliver

I’d probably be more interested in your real life experiences than the story. I remember a fairly compelling account by a man who spent a week as a human pony.

Part of my gut response to the story was that it brought back an ancient fear: I used to be afraid that I’d one day be confined to a mental asylum for life.

I thought you did a really fine job of storytelling. Especially for such a long narrative.

My image of the guy: 20s, clean-cut, professional.

Sorry about the delay. Busy, busy. Thanks, Richard, for the compliment.

R., your comment about liking the idea of a little tail has been in my mind ever since I saw it. Despite having spent time under more than one dom(me), part of me still always worries that they’re just doing this to humor me. I can’t tell how I would react to the real thing but part of me very deeply wants a real tail, maybe two or three inches long, with fur on it that tapers up my back above it. Enough that I can “pass” in human clothes but that a close observer will figure it out.

I love the idea that such a tail would probably go a long way towards making others, if I were collared and nude and “in role”, sincerely start to think of me as an animal, as not entirely human. I have fantasized about this for many years, even discussed the means with doctors and could probably give a pretty accurate estimate of time, expense (about $20K if done in the U.S.), and techniques.

Having such a tail also, however, played a central part in a nightmare that even now, several years later, still occasionally gives me the shivers. After all, if, as I suspect it would, such a tail and a few other concurrent mods would genuinely make people perceive somebody as “just an animal”, that person really WOULD be a lot more likely to end up as somebody’s non-consensual slave. I strongly suspect that somebody, somewhere will do just that, conditioning, then mods, then true enslavement partially reenforce by the changes in self-image such mods would induce, some time in the next five years. Not cool. Cameron Hooker was the first, and he did it without mods. Somebody out there will take it further and, like Hooker, that person’s actions will provide a manual for the next round. In other words, if you’re a serious sub and this stuff turns you on, then in every sense, WATCH YOUR ASS.

Moving on, yeah, I’ve made some efforts to write up my experiences but the details, the specifics, are core to that and the woman who kept me has now, after being connected to some degree or other to the leather scene since the eighties, now gone completely vanilla to the point of trying to deny that some of this stuff ever happened. She always made it clear to me that our activities were to remain secret from the world and I am assuming (since she will no longer discuss it) that this goes doubly so now.

So, that being the case, I’ve never yet found a compromise level of detail that neither makes it possible for somebody to figure out who we are (especially since in some ways we’ve both been kinda visible) nor leaves my descriptions too vague for satisfaction.

I’ll take another shot.

You’ll be getting an email later today.

-Gulliver

Oh, as for the protaganist’s description, I have always seen him as thin, early forties, did a stint in the army to pay for college, a bit over six feet tall. Midwestern (maybe Indiana or Nebraska), quiet, intermittantly religious family but had arguments about it that left him an agnostic. A bit shy, but stubborn. Town family rather than true small farm. Knew about 4H but wouldn’t have done it and didn’t see the point. Got beat up by the jocks in high school, stood up to them, but it took a lot out of him. Liked design but hid that side of himself to avoid being branded a “faggot”. Generally has tried to be invisible, get along, not make trouble. But somehow, trouble just keeps finding him. Well-meaning family but nobody who really supported him or stood up for him. Blonde, nice face and body but not gorgeous. Had some okay girlfriends but also a few who really fucked him over, including leaving him with quite a bit of debt. Just a quiet, decent, smart, level-headed guy who was asked to survive too much work and abuse and pain and lay down, rolled over, and was primed to completely surrender.

-Gulliver

This story shows that there are two types of S&M sex play and fantasies. Most people prefer situations in which they engage in a scene or activity and then return to their normal life with no one the wiser. Others fantasize about or have something erotic done to them that spills over into their everyday life. Although I have no desire to be made into an animal, I could see where the protagonist in this story would find his situation exciting, frightening and in some strange way irresistible.

In practical terms tattoos, piercings, bandings and laser hair removal are common markings that a dom can use to modify a slave permanently. Body shaving provides a temporary alternative. If the slave has been living a conventional, conservative life, fear of the discovery of such marks by almost anyone, but especially family and friends, provides an exciting counterpoint to the display of them during sex play. As time goes on, the markings might become more extreme, and the slave will be less able to hide them. Such dilemmas or the contemplation of such situations can be truly stimulating and exciting. It’s like riding a scary rollercoaster only far more intimate and erotic.

My mistress requires me to shave my body smooth from the neck down. She also requires me to wear tiny g-strings to the beach so that I can show my barbered body to the world. Sometimes I am embarrassed by my shaved legs, arms and pubis, but for reasons I can’t fully explain, I find those awkward situations exciting.

My fantasy is to be tattooed extensively and to have piercings in my breast nipples and a prince albert in my penis. My rings would be sealed shut so that I could not remove them easily, and my tattoos would eventually spread to my hands and face. One of my fantasies is to be lying in a tattoo parlor with the machine buzzing in my face. I realize that the pain of the needle is only the beginning. After I have healed, I’ll be facing a lifetime of pity and scorn from some while others will view me with envy and awe.

Years ago I saw and taped an episode of the Guinness Book records TV show. The featured guest was Julia Gnuse who was billed as the most tattooed woman in the world. Her tattoos, which are exquisite, run from the top of her forehead to the tips of her toes. The reactions from the audience were priceless, and I was envious of her. It was at that moment that my interest in extreme tattooing blossomed.

Gulliver Something that you said in your previous entry- “Sorry about the delay…” has left me with quite an insatiable curiosity. I have been wondering where you inquired to learn about the possibility of getting an ‘artificial’ tail. I would love to be able to discuss the idea in depth, if possible. missa.marie@live.com is an email that can be used to reach me if you ever have the time. My sincere thanks. ~Malissa

Your feelings?

Please share your feelings about 2: Horse Of A Different Color. Please stick to the topic of the entry. Forthright disagreement is fine as long as it is civil.
My thanks,
Richard

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