Colored by Trystl, Original art by veterinarian "Settle Down, girl," he says as he places an array of frightening things on the floor in front of my pillow. Despite their strangeness, the purpose of the objects are all too obvious—and the fact that he's gone to all this trouble, creating this tight (but perfectly fitting) puppy suit suggests that he intends to keep me in it for a little longer than just one afternoon. Why, oh why, did I respond to that ad in the paper for DOG TRAINING? Even when I was reading the job description, the wording seemed a little peculiar. Not 'dog trainer' but dog training. It never occurred to me that I might be the animal being trained. The only thing I thought about was the fact that I love dogs and being able to train them seemed like a dream come true. Apparently my employer thinks so too. I didn't even tell anyone where I was going before I left for the interview. I faxed my resume to the number listed and didn't hear back for more than a week. I was sure the reason it took so long was because I didn't get the job. Now I realize he was probably investigating my background and home life; making sure that I was the perfect patsy—and, of course, getting my measurements so he could make this custom suit. The man leans over and rubs my head like he's petting a dog. "It will be better if you don't fight it, girl," he says with a friendly smile. "Fuck you," I try to say, but it comes out sounding more like a dog bark and I can feel my face turning red at the humiliation of it. "The suit is supposed to be tight," the man says. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. If you do what you're told you'll have a very good life. We're not trying to hurt you or anything... see how your elbows and knees are padded? And we've given you a nice comfortable pillow. Learn to do your tricks and you'll be pampered like a princess... I like that. Princess. That's a wonderful dog name. Alright princess, show me what a good dog you're going to be by Holding still while I put on your snout; then you can roll over so I can put your tail in place. If you're good, I'll use Vaseline and push it in gently, but one way or the other, it's going to go in. After that, I'll take you for a little walk so you can meet all the other pets in the neighborhood." Part II--Dog Walking Colored by Trystl, Original art by veterinarian I hate the name Princess, but I suppose it's better than having him say things like, "Come here, bitch," all the time. He usually only calls me the B-name when he's particularly angry with me, and wants to humiliate me even more than usual. I've learned his name, from being nearby while he's having a conversation, but I refuse to use it. It's my way of trying to retaliate by refusing to use his name--but it's not the same thing. First of all, I'm never allowed to speak. When he takes me out into public, he uses a special gag that uses two sticks to clamp my tongue so it sticks out and I drool all over everything—he says it makes me look more like a dog and although I hate it, I can't really say he's wrong—so it's only when I refer to him in my head that I can avoid using his name. And secondly, he never show any interest in having me know his name—so I'm sure he doesn't care one bit that I'm not using it. Still, constantly bound as I am, it's one of the few things I can do to express my rebellion that won't get me into trouble. As much as I'd like to, I've learned not to irritate my… I don’t know what else to call him but owner; or master. As much as I hate it, I’m a realist. He loves taking me out with him whenever he goes out... and he's a very social sort of person. My muscles have developed in new ways so it's easier to walk than it used to be. I can almost keep up with him now without feeling like I'm running. I still hate being lead around by his leash. He tugs at my neck whenever I don't keep up or if I fail to heel properly. He's not the kind of owner who believes a dog should be given a long leash and allowed to wander around freely. He walks a lot because he has a heart condition and the doctors have ordered him to walk a minimum of five miles a day. Even with the pads, my knees and elbows are sore after that. I never would have thought I could get used to such long walks—but my muscles, at least, have gotten used to them. I dare say, it feels like I’ve lost at least thirty pounds wearing this confining 'bitch-suit' as he calls it—but I still hate it. Every time I loose a few pounds he takes it in and makes it even tighter than it was before. It seems the only part of the suit that hasn't gotten smaller is this damned plug-tail, which I swear keeps getting bigger and bigger. I hate the plug-tail and the tight suit the most, I think. The suit's tight material makes me sweat, which you'd think might keep the thing well lubricated but instead of sliding more easily it just makes the material stick to my skin and rub uncomfortably in places where material wasn't meant to rub. When it gets really bad I whine, "Just like a whiny little bitch," he says. I hate him, but when my skin gets raw like that I'm glad to let him rub lotion on it. In addition, the tail sways as I walk (which is humiliating enough) but after I've been walking for a while he likes to turn on the vibrating feature. He acts like it's a reward that keeps me motivated, but its really more of a distraction—and I think the reason he really does it is so I'll be dripping wet, if he decides to pleasure himself, or loan me out to one of his friends. Nothing is more humiliating than dripping from both ends as he leads me around. It always feels like everyone is staring at me. Sometimes I can even hear them snickering; and I hate it. I hate it.