The Dominant Male

with.
    On their return, they were left in the car for what seemed like a long time. They dozed, though it got colder; and they cuddled together ever more tightly.
    Eventually Rodney came to let them out. Willy did it almost neatly, Titty’s exit was a half-fall. He had them walk to heel around the corner. He clipped a chain tether to each of their collars. The tethers were attached to a ring near a drain, in the middle of the yard.
    Just as Willy had feared, he fetched a hose and brush and washed them down roughly and thoroughly, every inch. Even between the legs, armpits and face. Perhaps especially there. It was freezing cold, though it felt better to be clean. He fetched a rough towel and rubbed them until they glowed. Clean and dry was even better, though the fake fur was still damp and cold.
    He clipped on their leads and led them into a cellar under the house. Inside, it had a flagstone floor and stone walls, but Titty spotted a powerful heater in one corner. It wasn’t cosy, but it was a lot warmer than outside.
    There was a WC and wash-handbasin just out in the open, what looked like a barred cell, suspension points in the ceiling, and canes, whips and stuff on the walls that said ‘dungeon’ to her. As if she wouldn’t have guessed from other specialist furniture.
    At the far end there was a dog-run, made of new, shiningly galvanised panels. As he led them up to it they saw the plate:
    WILLY and TITTY .
    He opened the door and put them in, unclipping the leads once the door was secured with a padlock. They explored and found a calf-teat drinker, like the one they drank from in the clearing, set into the wall, with a plastic hose to a gallon-jug of water. There was fresh, clean, soft straw in a kennel at the back of the run.
    They entered it through the half-metre-square opening covered with strips of rubber, and found there was just enough space for them both to lie, close together. They cuddled close and drifted off to sleep.
    Readers, I think you can imagine the rest: each will have a different version, but everything anybody can imagine did happen, in those few days, or other times.
    At the end of the weekend they were released back into the world, in fresh clean clothes, and presented with their bitch-tags on stainless-steel chains to wear until the next time.
    They were assured there would be a next time. Despite being worked to exhaustion many times, teased, embarrassed, treated roughly, defiled, degraded and humiliated in every way, they knew it had been done by Masters who loved and cared for them.
    They’d come running, tongues lolling out, ready for anything, when they heard the whistle for their return.

On-the-Job-Training – Paul Scott
    Damn it! The bathroom cubicle had had its lock removed, against drug use, and Becky was dying for a wank – for a couple of very good reasons – on her way out of work. Swallowing her reservations and, in truth, feeling a frisson of excitement at the possibility of discovery, Becky put her bag on the cubicle floor and threw her mac over the top of the door frame to hold the door closed. She stood and looked for a second. This would of course give her identity away should anyone, unknown to her, overhear the shuffling and sotto voce groaning of her illicit wank. She removed it, propped the door closed and hoped for the best.
    Although Becky had worked as a sub-editor and website manager on Deviant magazine for about a year, she had never got used to these lousy toilets, though in style they certainly went with the publishing group’s crappy offices near London’s Old Street roundabout, in which Deviant occupied one floor. The parent company had been started by one of those iconoclastic nineties media moguls, and its titles strived hard to stay edgy, with Deviant detailed to cover film, music, fashion – pretty much anything cultural that was a bit fetish, gothy or cultish. Though it wasn’t top-shelf, it featured plenty of bare flesh, most of it inked or pierced, but not enough to keep it from the mainstream magazine retailers of the English-speaking world.
    Recently, as part of the hush-up of a minor staff drug-taking scandal, the building management had circulated stern emails about drug use, removed toilet locks throughout the building, and smeared petroleum jelly on any flat surfaces. She’d never got on with the bathroom on her floor at the best of times, since the lighting and mirror facilities were not up to the requirements of any