Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Dee Does HS 8 By peregrinf

   The next morning found me down on my knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.
It was eight o'clock on a Saturday, no less, and I'd already been down
there for an hour, scrubbing!  Normally I would still have been snuggled in
bed, dreaming wonderful dreams.

   Unless I was at the town pool, of course, which (checking the time)
would have just been opening, were it summer.  God I wish the school pool
would open!

   But back to my situation this morning.  I was getting what Mom and
Elaine -- I mean Mistress Elaine -- call "an attitude adjustment." After
reading the letters from Worthington, and questioning me in detail, the
consensus they had reached -- I was a mere spectator to their deliberations
-- was that I had been arrogant and disrespectful toward Mr.  Worthless ...


   Worthington, I mean.  Worthington.  Worthington, Worthington,
Worthington.

   The other name, what I called him, that one with "less" in the middle,
is to be banished, never to pass my lips again.  But, while the thought
police will do their best to wipe that other name from my mind, I feel they
are destined to fail, no matter how hard they try.  But I will do my best
to pay lip service to their wishes, under threat of grievous punishment.

   It was explained to me, that no matter what kind of a moron Mr. 
Worthington was -- and they did acknowledge he has his flaws -- he was an
adult, he was faculty, and as such he deserved more respect than I had
shown.  They carefully explained to me the difference between the
individual and the office which he holds, how there have been Presidents of
these United States who were weak or corrupt or just plain stupid, but they
were President, and as they occupied that office they deserved the respect
of being addressed as "Mr.  President."

   Even if they were jerks.

   Thus I was getting my attitude adjusted, which explains my humiliating
position on the kitchen floor, wielding scrub-brush and rag.

   And, before anyone gets all huffy about child abuse, let me make it
clear I am participating of my own free will.  I was told before I went
into this some of what would be demanded of me, and that any dom/sub
relationship should have, for the safety of all concerned, an escape hatch,
as it were -- a "safe word." I have one -- I'm not going to tell you what
it is -- but if they demand of me anything I really feel I cannot do, or
that it places me in real danger, all I have to do is use it and the game
stops.  I'll still be punished -- grounded for a week -- but the shackles
come off, I get up off my knees, or whatever, and life goes on more
normally.

   As to why I need this attitude adjustment, when questioned by Mom, I had
to confess that as my frustration with Worthington had increased, certain
disrespectful words such as "idiot" and "moron" and -- uh -- "dick-head" --
might have escaped my lips at a volume such that he might have heard it --
even through a closed door.  Perhaps I -- uhm -- glossed over some of the
less savory aspects of my interaction with -- that -- man.  I have a
temper, I admit it.  In his letters home, Mr.  Worthington had quoted me
accurately, much to my embarrassment.

   Oh, about the dog collar on the table when I got home yesterday?  That
is around my neck as a reminder that since I had behaved like a bitch I was
to be treated like one.  At the moment that treatment consisted of being
down on the floor on all fours, wearing that collar, along with cuffs on my
wrists and ankles -- all very sexy black leather, with shiny fittings.

   Reaching the sink side of the kitchen I crawled backwards a foot and
began working my way back across the floor, my chains rattling.

   Chains?

   Yes, chains.  There was a shining chrome slave chain around my waist,
cold and heavy rather than light and decorative, the kind of chain used for
leashes for big, strong dogs -- very decorative but unforgiving.  A
matching chain, about a foot long, joined my wrist cuffs.  The chain
linking my ankle cuffs was a little longer, maybe eighteen inches, so when
I walked I shuffled, if they saw fit to let me stand.  Crawling was just as
awkward.

   At the moment a chain in front, from my waist links down to the ankle
chain, was short enough to keep me from straightening my legs to stand. 
Another chain, from my collar to my wrists, meant I couldn't lower my hands
past my belly button, or raise them much above my head.  I was lucky I
could scratch my own nose.  I sure as hell couldn't scratch my butt, or
that nagging itch in my crotch.

   I'd tried, by raising my feet and humping my pelvis, to work the
waist-to -ankle chain into my slit, but hadn't had much luck.  Very
frustrating.

   Collar, cuffs and chains were all I was wearing.  It was, Mistress
Elaine took care to point out, more than a real bitch would get to wear,
not that it did anything for my modesty.

   After checking I'd finished my homework they'd put all the cuffs and
chains on me at bedtime, locking them with shining chrome padlocks, the key
to which Mistress Elaine wore on a chain around her neck, so it nestled
cozily in the attractive space between her delicious breasts....

   Ahhhhh!  I've got to stop thinking like that!

   Anyway, I'd slept in those chains.  If I hadn't been so tired after my,
shall we say, adventuresome Friday, I probably wouldn't have slept at all,
even without the chains.  They'd taken my covers and my pillows, leaving
only the snugly fitted bottom sheet.  It's amazing how a simple lack of
covers adds to the feeling of vulnerability.  The chains forced me to curl
up in the center of my bed like the bitch I was, my head on my paws, and I
soon slept soundly, my bedroom door wide open (bitches don't deserve
privacy), oblivious even to the sounds of carnal revelry emanating from
Mom's bedroom.

   Getting down the stairs to the kitchen this morning had involved -- well
-- call it sort of a butt-bounce process.  As a result I had rug-burns on
my ass.

   Now, up at dawn, nourished by a bowl of cold, dry granola (chosen for
its resemblance to dog kibble) sucked from a bowl on the floor (no spoon,
of course) I was down on the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, my bare
butt in the air, dipping a scrub brush into a bucket of hot,
pine-cleaner-scented water, and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, following
up by drying and polishing the just-scrubbed portion of floor with a rag --
an old hand towel -- which I periodically squeezed out into another bucket.


   They had debated making me use a tooth brush, but relented so the job
would be finished sometime this century.

   So, using both hands together because of the short chain linking them,
the routine was to rise up on my knees to dip the brush in bucket number
one, scrub as much floor as I could reach, given the limits of my chains,
then return the brush to bucket one.  Then I'd take the rag and wipe and
wipe and wipe, pausing to wring it out into bucket two, until the floor was
shining clean and no more than damp.

   I crawled on sore knees, painstakingly moving the buckets, to repeat the
process on the next patch of floor.  I figured I did about a
two-square-foot patch each time, going from one side of the kitchen to the
other, backing up about a foot and then scrubbing my way back across to the
other side, a couple of feet at a time, and -- well, I'm sure you get the
idea.  Because I had to use both hands on the brush, I couldn't even brace
myself with one hand and scrub with the other.  It was also awkward because
I didn't want to put the buckets on the portion of floor I'd just cleaned,
so I had to be kind of a contortionist as I moved the buckets and reached
to use them.

   The kitchen is about twelve feet by fifteen feet, and I was working my
way down the long axis.

   You do the math.

   My hands were like prunes.  My knees hurt.  My back hurt.  My wrists
hurt.  My shoulders hurt.  My toes hurt.  Even my neck hurt -- you try
staying on your hands and knees, holding your head up for an hour.  So from
time to time I'd stop and rest my head on my paws -- I mean, hands -- and
try to stretch my back.  If I rested too long, someone would come in and
give my naked ass a swat with a rolled up newspaper -- and no, these were
not sleep-in ladies.

   I was in masochist heaven.  Something about it -- the restriction, the
exposure, the humiliation, the degradation -- was turning me on something
fierce.  I was as frustrated as I'd been when I'd stupidly managed to tie
myself to Mom's bed, maybe more so, and I couldn't do anything about it. 
They hadn't even had the decency to fill my cunt with one of their
delicious vibrators.  Surely they had a way to secure something like that
within me.

   I can't reach my pussy, remember?

   Which, for some reason, puts me in mind of a silly riddle:

   Why does a dog lick himself?

   Because he can.

   Ho ho ho.

   Believe me, if I could have licked myself, I would have.

   I heard footsteps and looked up to see Mistress Elaine -- yes, that's
what I'm supposed to call her for the next two days, when I'm permitted to
speak at all -- coming through the door, stepping right on the cleaned part
of the floor.  She was wearing knee high, stiletto heeled boots, a collar
and wrist cuffs, and a bustier, all shiny black with lots of chromed rivets
and grommets and spikes and stuff.

   No panties.

   Okay, maybe her costume sounds a bit over-the-top, like a caricature out
of some bad B & D comic like I'd seen on the internet, but on her it was
dramatically effective.  She's not very tall, not as tall as Mom, or me,
but she has a very fit body, with firm, high breasts (the bustier no more
than a fashion statement), a trim waist, well-proportioned hips and shapely
legs.  She maintains only a narrow landing strip of dark hair above her
otherwise smooth pussy.

   Oh, and as I learned last night, she'd recently added a tattoo of a
hummingbird high on the inside of the front of her right thigh, its long,
thin beak pointing suggestively at the pink petals of her cunt.  In an act
to symbolize their intimate relationship, Mom had obediently acquired a
matching one on the inside of her right thigh.  I presume when they humped
each other the tattoos danced together.

   My mom!  With a tattoo!!

   They were really very discreet decorations, though a bathing suit would
reveal their bodies and heads, the long slender beak vanishing into
you-know-where.  Mom had blushed when Ela -- I mean when Mistress Elaine --
had ordered her to disrobe to reveal her decoration.  I wondered how she'd
felt as she'd had it inscribed on her bare flesh.  Was the artist male or
female?  How much had it hurt?  Had there been much blood?  Had Mom licked
away Mistress Elaine's blood as her tattoo was applied, and vice versa?  I
wished I'd been there.

   Would I have the nerve to be similarly decorated, should Mom permit it?
The thought made my pussy weep.

   In case I haven't mentioned it, Mom's pussy is now bald, not even a
landing strip.  Mom confessed she enjoys letting Mistress Elaine regularly
wax her.  I believe they call it a Brazilian wax.  She said they'd
discussed electrolysis, but that she prefers the regular personal attention
and stimulation of the waxing.  There was some talk of me becoming
similarly denuded.  I still haven't decided how I feel about that.

   But back to Mistress Elaine, who stood looking down on me.  I thought
she'd come in to see how I was doing.  Maybe she'd be pleased to see that I
was almost half done.  Maybe I'd receive praise, perhaps even a pat on the
head, or maybe a swat on the butt.

   But I was wrong.  Oh, was I ever wrong.

   Spreading her legs she humped her pussy forward, fingered her labia
apart, and proceeded to pee on the floor, right where I had finished
scrubbing only twenty minutes earlier!  Her yellow flood spattered down,
hot and pungent, spreading wide on what had been a spotlessly clean floor,
a few stray splatters landing on me.

   All I could do as Mistress Elaine relieved herself was sit back on my
heels and watch, dumbfounded, until the cascade died away with a few final
fragrant spurts.

   "You missed a spot." Mistress Elaine pointed to her puddle.  "Now get
over here and clean me up, bitch."

   I had no doubt as to exactly what she meant.  There wasn't a scrap of
toilet paper, not a hint of even a tissue or paper napkin to be seen.  And,
oh my, oh my, oh my, I didn't even hesitate.  My mouth and pussy watering
profusely, I shuffle-crawled over to her on my hands and knees, right
through the cooling pond of her piss.  It was slippery and I went down
awkwardly on my chest and had to struggle back up on to my hands and knees,
piss dripping off my stiff nipples.

   I finally reached her.  Rising to my knees, I started to put my hands on
her naked thighs, then realized I'd be getting the piss I'd just crawled
through all over her legs if I did that, so I tried not to, tried to get my
face up into her crotch to lick away the lingering droplets of her urine,
but of course I failed and had to paw her thighs to brace myself.

   I was aware of Mom coming in, moving around behind me, straddling me,
and the next thing I knew I felt a hot shower of pee on my back and ass
even as I slurped up the drops clinging to Mistress Elaine's pussy.  She
had a grip on my head, pressing my face into her fragrant crotch.

   So I licked, and licked, her landing strip rasping against the end of my
nose, and as I did my own body steamed with lust.  I remembered the
horniness from the day before, when I'd peed with a bunch of boys watching
me, and what I was doing now made me even more horny, and triggered another
urge in me as well, and I wished I hadn't used so much water to wash down
my dry granola breakfast.

   "Inside, too," Mistress Elaine ordered, as Mom's cascade dwindled and
she stepped back to witness my humiliation.  Mom wore her own collar, but
nothing more.  Mistress Elaine put an arm around her and fondled her
breasts before pinching her nipple, making Mom moan.

   Using my fingers I parted Mistress Elaine's pussylips and probed deep
with my tongue, wiping away the last remnants of her salty, pungent pee,
and all the while the heat in my own pussy flared higher, along with the
urge to pee myself.  Mistress Elaine of course enjoyed my oral attention
immensely, pushing her pussy forward and purring happily.

   When I had cleaned her pussy to her satisfaction, which resulted in a
mild orgasm on her part, I turned to repeat the process on my mother,
licking her smooth twat clean, bringing her to a quiet coming as well.

   I finished by licking off what my hands had left on their thighs before
I sat back on my heels, their pee running off me, looking up at the two of
them pitifully, desperately trying somehow to get them to understand that I
needed to go to the bathroom myself.  If I could have I would have pressed
my pissy fingers into my pussy, but I couldn't, so all I could do was
squirm, pressing my thighs tight together.

   Talk?  Talk to them you say?  Just ask?  Oh no.  They'd given me a
choice.  I could promise to be silent for two days, responding only to
direct questions, or they would silence me with a ball-gag.  Me?  Silent
for two whole days?  Now that was a challenge, and you know how I feel
about challenges.  But, to make it even worse, Mom had made a bet that I
could do it without the gag, the wager being seven consecutive days of
servitude for the loser.

   Unless specifically asked, if I spoke a single word this weekend Mom
would be Mistress Elaine's slave for a week.  I couldn't do that to her!

   "Now, clean up this mess, and don't soil your nice rag with my filth,"
Mistress Elaine added.

   For a moment I was confused.  I'd need another rag.  Only, there wasn't
another rag.  I looked plaintively up at her, and she looked down on me, an
empress to a scullery maid, and licked her lips, and I understood.  Oh, did
I understand.

   "But first, get the splatters on my boots," she added imperiously. 
Steadying herself with a hand on Mom's shoulder she raised a spike-booted
foot to me, and I licked her shining footwear clean.  I had to lick even
the soles and the heels, so she could carefully step back out of the puddle
without tracking it around.  I did the same to Mom's bare feet, licking
them clean of her tangy urine, guiding each foot back down clear of the
puddle on my formerly clean floor.

   The puddle of piss presented another challenge.  I tried licking and
discovered that while dogs and cats can lap up liquids quite efficiently,
my tongue lacked the required dexterity.  I would have been at it for a
month.  I solved the problem by pursing my lips and sucking it up like a
Shop Vac, long slurps.  The sucking action accentuated the pungent
fragrance of Mistress Elaine's piss as it filled my mouth before being
swallowed.

   Once I'd sucked up most of the puddle I lapped at the film left behind,
thankful that at least the floor had been sanitary before they had peed on
it.  By the time the floor was dry enough I was in agony from the need to
pee myself.  Somehow Mom managed to interpret my desperate squirming and
explained it to Mistress Elaine.

   "She can just go on the floor, and then clean it up!" Mistress Elaine
proclaimed.

   "Oh, no, please, Mistress.  She is housebroken now," Mom pointed out
unhappily.  "We don't want to break her training."

   I presume you've figured out the pecking order here, with Mistress
Elaine at the top and me at the bottom, Mom in the middle.  The dom/sub
roles I'd seen hints of in Dr.  Smathers's office had matured.

   "Oh, very well.  Dee, come!" Mistress Elaine snapped her fingers as she
went over to the door to the back yard, her heels clack-clacking loudly as
I scrambled to follow on hands and knees as fast as the chains allowed.  I
was sticky and smelly with the drying remains of my mom's piss.  Taking
down a leash from a hook on the wall -- how long had they been planning
this?  -- she snapped it to my collar, opened the door, and led me outside
into the cool morning air.  Navigating the harsh concrete steps was a
painful challenge, and I welcomed the sweet, soft, dewy wet grass under my
scraped and burning knees and palms.

   Relishing being outside in the open air, even in my role as a pet, even
as desperate as I was to pee, I sniffed the grass, explored the scents,
looked at the yard from my dog's-eye, view until Mistress began impatiently
jerking at my leash.  I carefully selected a spot with the softest grass.
Then, out there in the open, in full view of the neighbors, I spread my
knees as far as I could, squatted like the bitch that I was, and released
my own flood, the rich smell swirling around me, relishing the relief,
wondering if the lawn appreciated my offering.  I'd gone beyond my assigned
reading in bio and learned that pee -- urine -- is rich in nitrogen, the
result of my body breaking down proteins, and that plants loved it.

   Then I was left with the problem of wiping myself.  Believe me, if I
could have licked myself like a dog, I would have.  I'm limber, but not
that limber.  Mistress Elaine solved it by ordering Mom to do for me what
I'd done for them only a few minutes ago.  Down on her knees at my ass, the
touch of Mom's tongue on my pussy was almost enough to make me come, but
Mistress Elaine stopped her before I could.  Then, before being allowed
back in the house, she turned the hose on me to wash off the piss I'd
rolled in and been showered in.  There was a moment when the water washing
over me was warm from having been in the hose, but it quickly turned icy
cold.

   The whole scene left me unbelievably horny!

   But there was no relief.  It was back to the kitchen floor -- I had to
go back over the area where they'd peed -- and it was lunch time by the
time I finished by the back door.  Mistress Elaine unlocked the chain from
waist to ankles, letting me stand so I could serve my mistresses in
accordance with their exacting instructions.  With my wrists still chained,
both together and to my collar, making sandwiches -- ham and Swiss and
lettuce on Jewish rye, mustard for Mistress Elaine, mayo for Mom -- was a
challenge.  Nor did they release my ankles, making me shuffle madly back
and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, keeping the chilled
Chablis flowing, bringing some condiment, taking away another -- anything
to keep me moving.

   Later, at their leisure in the living room as they finished their wine,
while I knelt obediently at their feet, Mistress Elaine made a great show
of playing with my mother's naked body, fondling her lush breasts, tracing
the lascivious tattoo on her thigh with a scratching fingernail.  Mom made
her own show of blushing immodesty as she made herself available to her
lover's attention.  Mistress Elaine teased Mom's tits, pinching her
nipples, tugging and twisting them as Mom groaned, her hands obediently at
her side, unresisting.  She spread her thighs so Mistress could probe her
slick, wet pussy with one, then two, then three fingers, commenting lewdly
about Mom's arousal, and I wondered if Mom was going to get fisted again,
and if I'd get to do it.

   Or maybe I'd get fisted.  That thought gave me a real squinchy feeling
in my cunt.

   I was in the kitchen clearing away the lunch debris when I heard Mom
squeal ecstatically in the living room.  At least I think it was ecstasy.
I'd learned this morning, when Mistress Elaine woke me up, that she has
sharp nails and a very hard pinch.  My right nipple was still pretty
sensitive, especially when my wrist chain accidentally brushed it.  Not
wanting my left nipple to feel neglected I gave it a treat by teasing it
with the cold links from time to time.  It's about the only direct sexual
stimulation I could manage myself.

   Oh, I could have pinched my own nipples, but that was against the rules,
and my sense of honor forbade me from doing so even if I could get away
with it behind a locked door.

   "We're going upstairs, Dee.  Come up as soon as you finish cleaning up
down here," Mistress Elaine ordered, and I obeyed, careful to leave the
kitchen spotless even as I hurried, afraid I'd miss out on the action. 
Finished and trying to run up the stairs I fell on my face, thanks to my
chains, barely managing to catch myself on my forearms to avoid breaking my
nose on a step.

   I crawled up the rest of the way like an inch-worm, all five-foot almost
ten of me, which must have been an interesting sight.

   They were in Mom's bedroom.  Mistress Elaine gave a happy sigh as Mom
unfastened her bustier.  Mom even tenderly massaged away the impression
left by the tight garment.  The bustier had to be an S&M affectation. 
Mistress Elaine's breasts would never need the support, nor her waist the
confinement.  Then Mistress sat on the side of the bed and indicated I
should relieve her of her boots, while Mom dealt with her decorative cuffs
and collar.

   "Mistress, may I?" Mom asked humbly when she was done, indicating our
dom's lovely pussy.

   "No, dear, I'd prefer Dee did it.  You'll get your turn later, perhaps."


   "Yes, Mistress." Mom looked suitably subservient as she knelt naked on
the bed.

   On the floor between Mistress's now bare feet, it would have been a
simple matter to move up to tend to Mistress Elaine's pussy, but she had a
curriculum of her own in mind and swung around to stretch out languidly on
the bed.

   Now, with my usual total honesty, I must confess that I considered
myself the champeen 14-and-under muff diver of the whole county, given my
experience with my former BFF Missy and my new BFF and mentor Kathy Powers.


   However, Mistress Elaine proceeded to give me a master class in oral
carnality.  With gesture, posture, and voice, she guided my licks and
touches to every sensitive nook and cranny of her many erogenous zones, a
top-to-toe tour, as it were.  While Mom watched and presumably took mental
notes to improve her own Sapphic skills, I laved Mistress Elaine's
delicious body with my tongue.

   I explored the shell-like curls of her ears, nibbled their tender lobes,
licked and nipped the pulse point of her jugular, savored her mouth, her
tongue exploring my teeth, her teeth scratching my tongue.  I tasted musky
salt from the bristles of her recently tonsured armpits, licked her throat
and cheeks, suckled on her distended nipples, probed the socket of her
navel with the tip of my tongue.  After rolling on her stomach she directed
me to the back of her neck, down the line of her spine from her shoulders
to just above the glorious globes of her ass.  But no lower, stopping me
just above the dark, beckoning crevice separating her nether cheeks.

   Instead of getting to go for the gold there, I was directed to the soles
of her feet, the crevices between her toes.  I nibbled and tongued each
little piggy, even the one who went "wee, wee, wee," all the way home,
delicately noshed on her ankles and calves, tasted the backs of her knees.
When she rolled over on her back again I nibbled the insides of her spread
thighs, working my way upwards.  With my fingertips I traced every lovely
line of her delicate tattoo, slowly closing in on the Holy Grail.

   But still, still I was steered away from that honey pot.  Instead my
tongue traced the grooves where thighs joined pelvis, making her tummy
twitch.  Finally, finally, following her instructions, my teeth tugged ever
so gently at the soft meat of her outer lips, my head swimming with the
musky scent of her arousal.  When she curled herself up, holding her knees
and spreading her legs like a frog's, I lapped at the sweaty pucker of her
anus with its rich, earthy scent, even probing its darkness with the tip of
my tongue, my nose nestling into the steaming heart of her pussy as I did.

   Moving upwards from there, after bathing the ridge of flesh separating
sewer from playground, I delicately teased my tongue along her already
distended inner folds, until I was allowed to do my best to plumb the
depths of her vagina.  I found myself wishing I had the tongue of a giraffe
so I could tease the donut of her cervix.  Alas, it was out of reach.

   When my lips and tongue were permitted to reach the trigger of her
desire they delicately savored the sweetly slippery little pearl of her
clitoris as it protruded shyly from the sheltering hood of her inner lips.
She wailed her pleasure to the ceiling as I lavished attention on that
nerve-packed nubbin, her hands clutching my head, her thighs clapping my
ears as Mom was allowed to suckle greedily at our mistress's breasts,
sucking ravenously on her turgid nipples, while I wriggled three fingers
deep inside her vagina.

   Mistress Elaine rewarded our efforts with a song of unabashed joy along
with a gush of juices that I eagerly lapped up.

   During this entire safari I was, of course, madly scribbling mental
notes on the cluttered slate of my mind with the idea of having someone
else, whose initials are Greg Anderson, make a similar tour of my flesh if
we ever got the opportunity, and I'd tour his anatomy similarly, joyously,
until he rewarded my mouth with his thick, creamy essence and I rewarded
him with a gusher of ecstasy.

   Not that I'd reject taking tours of other people and allowing other
tourists to explore my terrain, thinking especially of Kathy Powers.  She
was tall!  I could spend hours on her, and as far as I was concerned she
could just eat me all up.

   But Mistress was done with me.  She discarded me as casually as if I
were a used tissue, turning instead to my mom, drawing her down, cuddling
her, dismissing me.

   You think I spent the afternoon curled up on the floor while my
mistresses made erotic noises up on the bed before they began to snore
softly?  Think again.  I had a list of chores, concluding with preparing a
three-course meal (salad, main course, dessert) for them by 7:00 pm.  I did
not nap.  I had too much to do, so I slipped out of the room to resume my
labors.  It's probably just as well.  I was so horny if I'd stayed to
eavesdrop I probably would have ended up humping the bed-post.

   The list was fit for a scullery maid, if a scullery maid was what I
thought it was.  The list is too long and tedious to reproduce here.  It
was drudgery made more challenging by my cuffs and chains -- cleaning the
bathroom, folding laundry.  Supper was a tossed salad (three kinds of
lettuce, baby spinach, tomatoes, etc.), spaghetti with my patented sauce
made from scratch (chopping onions while my wrists were chained was
tricky), and a light sorbet dessert.  The specified table setting was
elegant and romantic -- candle light, our best dishes and flatware,
stemware for the Chianti.

   The diners were nude.  I was stationed under the table, popping out
periodically in response to their imperious demands.

   "More wine, Dee."

   "More pasta, Dee."

   "I can't reach the salt, Dee."

   "Where's the pepper, Dee?"

   "More Parmesan cheese, Dee!"

   "I dropped my napkin, Dee."

   "Lick my pussy, Dee."

   That last was my favorite.  I'd dive between open thighs and was granted
the right to taste my mom's or my mistress's pussy, just a few tantalizing
licks before it was, "more wine, Dee," or something else that was often
within reach, occasionally something in the kitchen, always in a rush,
making me shuffle, chains jingling.

   You get the idea.  Never a "please" or "thank you." They got their
jollies out of making me crawl from beneath the table, my chains rattling
as I waited on them hand and foot; moving the salt shaker within Mistress's
reach, refilling Mom's wine glass from the bottle that was right there on
the table, crawling back under the table, only to be called out again, or
ordered to dive into a pussy again.

   When they'd finished I was allowed to eat.  They put their used plates
on the floor for me to lick clean.  Mom left a little more on hers than
Mistress Elaine did, but not much.

   After clearing away the dishes my evening was spent catering to their
every whim, in the end watching Mistress Elaine torment my mom, who
willingly let herself be bound spread-eagle on her bed with the same
implements I had managed to bind myself once.

   Mistress Elaine then teased Mom to the brink of an orgasm with strokes
of the cat-o'-nine-tails, and loving licks.  From neck to knees she flicked
my Mom with teasing lashes of the cat's nine soft leather tails until Mom
was begging for release.  Only then did Mistress finally focus the cat on
Mom's heaving, sweating breasts and between her trembling, straining
thighs, until her whole body was flushing red, her nipples were swollen
like strawberries, her pussy inflamed and she was screaming in ecstasy.

   I could only watch, wishing it were me.

   After reconnecting the chain that limited me to being on all fours
Mistress Elaine let Mom take me out into the backyard on a leash to void my
bladder.  I tried to be generous, distributing my gold shower on three or
four different patches of grass which seemed to require encouragement.

   Back inside, still in short chains, I spent that night curled up on the
floor at the foot of their bed.  As a concession to my good behavior they
allowed me a pillow, and I slept very soundly, until I was again awakened
by Mistress Elaine pinching my other tit from the one she'd pinched the
first day of my attitude adjustment.  She was an equal opportunity pincher,
I guess, or she didn't want me to be unbalanced, pain-wise.

   And thus began Sunday morning.  Before and after breakfast, which I
prepared, I was taken outside for bodily functions.  On the second trip I
had to -- ahem -- dig a hole in a flower bed with my paws, in which I made
a deposit, subsequently burying it.  Instead of Mom having to wipe me
again, the garden hose was turned on me.  From behind it almost resulted in
an enema, as well as providing a very stimulating douche.  When the water
was turned off the sun felt really, really warm.

   "How about a walk to the park this morning," Mistress Elaine proposed
when we got back inside, me kneeling beside her, still leashed.  "It's a
lovely day, and Dee can get some exercise.  Perhaps we'll even have lunch
there."

   I almost forgot myself and spoke!  To the park?  Like this, naked and
chained?  Everyone would see!

   Oh my.

   We went.  The only concession was letting me stand upright -- Mistress
Elaine had Mom unlock the waist-to-ankle chain -- and a pair of athletic
shoes to protect my feet.  It was a good thing.  My feet would have been
scuffed raw before we got there.  Mistress Elaine made no concession to my
hobbled ankles.  I had to maintain my fast shuffle to keep up with her
strides.

   Note to self: Remember this when I'm walking with a shorter legged
friend.  My long stride can cover a lot of territory.

   I know I got some strange looks from passers-by.

   It was a lovely day, warm and sunny, and the park was busy, oh so busy.
I stood out like a nudist at a revival meeting.  Once there Mistress Elaine
had Mom unlock the chain linking my ankles, so I could run.

   "Fetch!"

   I fetched.  I ran, the wind playing with my naked skin, the toes of my
shoes digging into the sod, the chain rattling around my waist as I chased
the Frisbee Mistress Elaine had sent flying.

   I leaped, reaching, reaching, I snatched it out of the air and fell,
tucking and rolling, bounding to my feet and racing back to Mistress Elaine
and Mom, Frisbee in my hands, passing the plastic disk back to Mistress
Elaine while on the run, I circled around them like a happy retriever and
waited eagerly for the next throw.  It felt so good to really run!

   "She's not allowed to speak," Mistress Elaine was explaining to the
Finches who, with John, were watching my antics, along with other curious
spectators and dog walkers.  "She's learning there are times bitches must
be silent and obedient.  Fetch!"

   The Frisbee soared and I raced off after it again, stretching my legs,
relishing the exercise, constantly aware of my nakedness, the collar around
my neck, the cuffs still clasping wrists and ankles, the chain dangling
from my waist threatening to trip me up.

   Another diving catch, I was forced to reach with both hands because they
were still chained together.  I tumbled on the soft grass, rolling over and
over before scrambling to my feet to run back.  The Finches, returning from
church, were in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, Mrs.  Finch in her
light summer dress, Mr.  Finch looking very natty in a light summer
sport-jacket and tan slacks, John in white shirt and slacks.  He was
adapting well to the Finches' environment, the adoption papers soon to be
finalized, I believe.

   He didn't seem distressed at my bondage, his home abuse having taken a
different form.  He did seem to appreciate my exposure.

   Others in the park wore everything from light summer clothes to wife
-beater shirts, cut-offs and shorts, polo shirts, slacks, even tennis garb.
Mistress Elaine looked very athletic in a trim, white sleeveless blouse,
crisp Bermuda shorts, and running shoes.  Mom was more ladylike, a light
cotton dress and strappy sandals, and her collar, of course.  Mr.  Finch
wasn't oblivious to her nipples poking at the thin fabric, the movement of
her unfettered breasts.  She was as Mistress Elaine had dictated -- no
underwear -- and, not having had my Naked in School experience, Mom was
self-conscious about it.

   "Fetch!"

   Off I went, sprinting across the lawn, my attention split between the
Frisbee and the sensuous feeling of the air on my naked body.  Mistress had
a good arm.  She'd sent this one high, angled so I had to track it as it
danced on the breeze.  Somehow I managed to avoid a patch of shrubs and
gathered it in, this time without taking a tumble, and I dashed back to
them, my tongue hanging out.  I made a motion toward the drinking fountain,
and Mom handed the little bowl she'd brought to John, who, following
Mistress Elaine's instructions, filled it and put it down on the ground for
me to drink out of.  I got down on my hands and knees and lapped at the
water, my naked ass high, intensely conscious of so many eyes on my
humiliation.

   Then it was back to chasing the Frisbee.  God I was loving it!  I loved
the park, I loved the weather, I loved the exercise, and I loved the
exposure.  Feeling strong and graceful, I was out there for everybody to
see me for what I was, a naked bitch playing in the sun.

   After lunch in the park -- for me it was bites of a hot dog fed to me as
I knelt by the bench -- it was back to the house, where I was blindfolded
and bound standing spread-eagle between saplings in our small back yard. 
Mistress Elaine used tent ropes with those sliding things so she could
stretch me as tight as possible.  Then she gave me a safe word, but made it
clear that if I used it Mom would lose her bet.

   Oh shit.

   Mom wielded the cat, while Mistress Elaine supervised, stretched out in
the sun on the chaise.  The first stroke stung my fanny and I yelped,
jerked against my restraints, more from surprise than pain.

   This was my mom.  She whipped me with love, while Mistress Elaine ate
grapes and gave instructions on how hard to hit, and where, but in a way so
I never knew where the next blow would fall.  For a time it was my back,
from my shoulders to my thighs.  If there was a pattern I couldn't figure
it out.  One stroke my set my shoulder blades on fire, the next the back of
my thighs or small of my back.  It really stung the backs of my knees.  By
the time Mom began on my front my back felt like I'd spent the day out in
the sun.

   Oh lord, lord, lord.  The first stroke flicked on my tummy, my tight,
tight tummy and I gasped in shock.  It was like a splash of water so cold
it felt hot, and then it was hot.  Then my thighs, one at a time, on the
quads, making my legs jump.  Then across my pelvis just above my pussy. 
The tips of the cat's tails flicked around my sides.  She struck a little
higher, my ribs, and I moaned and squirmed.  Then it was the insides of my
thighs, my gut again.

   I can't quite explain how it felt.  Each blow stung, made my skin burn,
but it didn't really hurt.  It made me incredibly aware of my skin, my
total exposure.  I felt the sun on my stimulated flesh like I'd never felt
it before.  Blindfolded, all my other senses were hyper-alert.

   I heard the birds in the trees, the bark of a distant dog, the thump of
a basketball, the laughter of children playing in a sprinkler or play-pool
-- all the normal suburban sounds.  Then there was a soft rushing sound of
the leather strips just before the cat struck my flesh with a flat slapping
sound.  I felt sweat trickling down my sides, smelled my arousal on the
breeze, heard my soft grunt with every stroke.

   It made me as horny as I had ever been in my short life.  I knew my
pussy was totally aroused, my juices drying chill on my tender petals.

   When oh when would my tender titties feel that wonderful sting?  Would I
be able to bear it?  I remembered the time trials, where I'd gone off the
starting blocks nude, the pain when my tits were slapped by the water. 
Would it be like that?

   Then it struck, square across the shy mounds of my breasts, seared my
nipples, and it was like a sunburst through my whole body.  I was left
gasping, my ribs heaving.  Oh SHIT!

   And the next one -- the next one -- oh GOD!  The lash struck my exposed
and aroused pussy and it was like a bomb going off, a flash of pain and
then my whole body was engulfed in my orgasm.  For the longest time I
strained against my restraints in full sensory overload.  Finally, after
some timeless interval, the pleasure faded in steps that made me jerk and
shudder, until I was hanging limp as a dishrag between the trees, and Mom
was cuddling me and soothing me, holding me up as Mistress Elaine released
my arms and then my legs.

   Tottering between them they half carried me in the house, up to the
bathroom, where they bathed me in lukewarm water, their hands slippery with
soap, rinsed me and patted me dry with a towel that felt like it was
sandpaper on my over-stimulated skin.

   Between them on Mom's bed, they cuddled me, skin to skin, between their
warm, comforting, loving bodies, and I slept.