Work Text:
In the middle of trying to remember whether that offset is 0xAC or 0xCA, your arms crossed over your tits as you squint at the screen—in the middle of that the collar snaps down on your neck and claws rake your nape: you go floppy for a minute, slap the keyboard as the wheeled chair slides out from under you. When your ass hits the ground your surprise-noise isn't a "hey!" or and "ow!" or a "fuck!" it's a bark, another bark quickly following.
Bark.
Indignantly you look up: the protests come out as yaps, the glare as a dopey grin, the angry waves as the clumsy raising and presenting of a paw for shaking. They take your hand, fingers rubbing along your palm. They press, and you can feel your pads there, your blunt claws against their skin, your eyes widening as they stare at you. Oh. Right. You're a dog.
"Oh good, you remember how to shake," they say lazily. "You're not a very bright dog. But you do seem to hold onto a couple of tricks very well. Do you remember your fuck-mutt tricks? Are you a nice airhead fuck-mutt? I bet you are. Who's a nice dim fuck-mutt dog? Is it you?"
They're nodding. You're nodding. Who's a nice dog? You're a nice dog. You are.
You have weird stuff hanging on your body. It's a little itchy. They help you get all of it off: it's there on the floor for you to sniff at, to look at with that head-to-one-side puzzlement. Flannel and denim and a nice smooth little thing with curves that was against your chest and a thin ropy bit you don't know where it was. As you paw at the pile of clothes with them, your forelegs look a little odd, look bare, but you're sure you can feel your fur so it must be there. After all your owner is rubbing your back (their hand feels good) and telling you what a nice soft-furred collie you are so it's probably just not easy to see right now.
Your leash snaps onto the collar: gosh it's pretty, a nice shiny chain leading from your thick black collar with the nice comfy inside lining to the loop that fits your owner's hand really well by now. Sometimes you put your face on the loop on the end of the chain because that part smells like them and the metal part doesn't. It's a nice smell. They're leading you along and you can see how that part of the leash sort of shifts around until they're holding it in the way they always do because it's kind of molded to their hand now.
Your owner's hands are nice, especially touching you.
There's a beep from up on the desk, there's a bright square up there with squiggly stuff all over it. Click. The square goes dark, then gets a pretty color-pattern. Your owner says something about saving that for later. You don't quite get it. But there are a lot of things your owner says that you don't quite get and it's just part of being a dumb dog and they're a pretty good owner so you just nod and stay by their feet because they told you to heel and you're a good dog.
A leash-tug, a firm "come," and you're following them, over carpet and through hall and oh hey it's your owner's bedroom. You look over at their bed. You look at the pet bed at the foot of it, with the rubber bone and the nice blanket that just covers you and the squeaky plush rabbit. Your things. Dog things.
Oh gosh they're patting the bed and tugging your leash. You get to go up! Oh gosh oh gosh. You hop onto the bed, you're wiggling, your eyes are wide as you look at them. Are you being a good dog? Yes you are. You beg, keeping your forelegs up, balancing carefully. They've got a forefinger on your nose, they're grinning, and then the finger's darting aside and you flop over. Your legs spread: you show off your cunt, wiggle around, wuff happily as they rub your belly.
When they bite your throat you go all light-headed and it's nice and they don't really take their clothes off while they're fucking you, while they're whispering roughly that you're a collie cunt, that you're a ditz, that you're a brainless fuck-mutt. They say it and you buck up against them, they tell you how wet and nice your cunt is, and really you just don't have a whole lot to think about, which is just as well.
"—and wake up."
You sit up, panting, fingers digging into the sheets.
"Fuck!"
Okay, you've got words again. They're sitting by the bed. Grinning. Smirking, really. You glare. It's not much of a glare.
"And here you are again. Welcome back, babe."
"I… guess I'm back."
You sit up, cross your legs, realize you had a wistful tone in your voice. Shoulders hunch forward, shaking. Hands slide down shins to rest on your feet, thumbs rubbing insoles slowly. Human feet, callused, warm. Human hands, proper fingers and thumbs.
"You're back to human, yeah. This time. I'm always a little surprised when you do actually come back. I mean. The way you beg for hypnosis sessions. The way your eyes go wide when I call you a dumb cunt. The way your tongue hangs out a little when you're deep down. Any day now I'm gonna tell you to wake up and you're just going to be all 'nah I'm good, just a dog.' It'll be hilarious. Good thing I like you as a dumb mutt. But you just keep asking for programming, keep doing it to yourself. Easier and easier to just be a stupid bitch—well hey that's not quite fair, you're average bright. For a dog."
They stand up, take a step, wait by the bed. They're looking down at you; you can feel it. Feel your breath getting faster. Hear the little rustle of clothes as their hands move. Feel something's about to happen: maybe this time it'll be the time. Their hand's on your collar: you look up and make a hopeful grin. You'd bark, but your mouth's dry from adrenaline. Their voice is quiet, their face shifting from a lazy smile to a mask of focus.
"It's cute when you smile and wag your tail like you understand what's going on. Isn't that precious? It's like you think you're people."
A quiver in your belly. You do understand what's going on. You ache to not be people.
"So oblivious. I'm not even sure you understand me now, with that big dopey adorable grin."
Are you people? You might be a dog. Being people is the most difficult thing. Thinking about being a dog makes you grin more.
"Oh sure, you perk your ears up at words like 'fuck' or 'mutt.' But that's just good training. I had to do that."
A sudden scruff-grab, a growl.
"Dog, heel."
You're a dog.
You're scrambling off the bed. You're kneeling, you're wagging your tail, you're panting. You're looking up at them for attention because your owner is the most wonderful thing in the world and they're always in your thoughts and they treat you really, really nicely for you being a not-very-bright dog. They call you things like "bimbo" and "dumb cunt." They have a nice pet bed for you. They brush you. They fuck you. You don't really know why you blush instead of bite when they slap your face—why you first feel docile, then nervous, then horny when you're staring into their eyes—why the way they laugh when you're playing with your rubber bone, licking yourself, or leaning on their leg begging for petting, makes you feel good.
You're just a dog.
You don't know a whole lot.
You know you're a good dog. And you're a dumb fuck-mutt. Your owner says those things close together a lot. They both make you feel good. Especially when they say them while they're fucking you, biting your throat, crooning approvingly at your gasps and whimpers and yips. You are a good dumb fuck-mutt.
"Wake up."