Chapter 5: The Dog
The stale beer and cologne smell hit Sarah the moment she stepped into Ethan’s bedroom. He hadn’t touched her since guiding her in, just pointed towards the unmade bed. Posters of himself – grinning in football gear, holding trophies – watched her from the walls. Trophies. Like she was another one. Her ass still throbbed dully from the brutal fucking on his couch two nights ago, a constant reminder beneath her jeans. Yet, the phantom warmth of his arm around her shoulders, the whispered ‘special’, lingered too, a fragile shield against the dread coiling in her gut. She perched nervously on the edge of the mattress, fingers twisting in the worn fabric of her hoodie. He’d liked her wearing it last time. Maybe it hid the fading bruise on her neck.
Ethan leaned against his cluttered dresser, shirtless, scrolling his phone. He hadn’t looked at her since she arrived. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The hopeful warmth began to curdle. Finally, he tossed the phone aside. It clattered on the dresser top. His dark eyes fixed on her, but there was no softness now. Just a detached appraisal that made her skin prickle.
"Take that off," he commanded, nodding at her hoodie. His voice was flat. Cold.
Her fingers fumbled with the zipper. The room felt suddenly colder without its fleecy barrier. She folded it awkwardly, placing it beside her on the bed. Her thin t-shirt felt inadequate.
"Stand up."
She stood, heart hammering against her ribs.
"Jeans too. Off."
She hesitated, a flicker of rebellion sparking and dying instantly. She unbuttoned, pushed the denim down her legs, stepped out. Stood there in just her t-shirt and plain cotton panties, feeling utterly exposed under his unblinking gaze and the judgmental eyes of his own posters. The quiet stretched again, broken only by the hum of the mini-fridge. He pushed off the dresser, closing the distance slowly, a predator circling. He stopped just inches away. The scent of him – sweat, cologne, something faintly metallic – enveloped her.
"Look at the floor." His voice was a low murmur now, devoid of inflection.
Confused, Sarah lowered her gaze to the worn carpet fibers. Dust motes danced in the weak light filtering through the blinds.
"Get on your hands and knees."
The command, delivered so calmly, punched the air from her lungs. Her gaze snapped up to his face, searching for cruelty, for a joke. There was nothing. Just expectation. Ice flooded her veins. Special? Different? The words felt like shards of glass in her memory. The ache in her ass intensified. She remembered Jay’s quiet voice in the library, Davies writing Vulnerability on the board. This felt like vulnerability ripped raw.
"Do it, Sarah." Still calm. Utterly unyielding.
Trembling started deep inside, radiating outwards. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t make her limbs obey. Shame, hot and liquid, pooled in her belly. He sighed, a sound of profound boredom.
"Fine. We can end this now. You can leave." He gestured dismissively towards the door. "Go back to playing writer. See if I give a fuck."
The threat of dismissal, of being cast aside again, was a lash. It cut deeper than any physical pain. He’d discard her. Just like always. The fragile hope he’d offered curdled into panicked need. Don’t make me leave. Please. The words screamed silently inside her skull. She couldn’t bear the thought of walking back to the dorm alone, another failure. Slowly, jerkily, she bent forward, placing her hands on the rough carpet. The fibers scratched her palms. She lowered herself onto her knees, then shuffled forward until she was on all fours. Her head hung low, blonde hair falling like a curtain, blocking her view of his feet. The position was absurd, degrading. Humiliation burned her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Better." His voice held a hint of satisfaction now. She heard him move, his bare feet padding softly on the carpet, circling her. "Now... crawl to me."
A choked sob threatened to escape. She bit her lip hard. The metallic tang of blood bloomed on her tongue. She took a shaky breath and moved one hand forward. Then the opposite knee. Then the other hand. The other knee. The carpet rasped against her kneecaps. Each movement was agony, not of the body, but of the spirit. She felt like an animal. Less than.
He stopped her with a toe nudging her hand just as she neared his feet. "Look up."
She lifted her head slowly. He stood over her, legs slightly apart. His cock was already semi-hard, straining against his sweats. He looked down at her, a cruel amusement playing on his lips. His hand dipped into his pocket, pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen, then held it out, angling the camera down at her. Recording. The red light blinked. A fresh wave of nauseating shame crashed over her. She wanted to curl into a ball, disappear.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping into a low, mocking croon. "Bark for me, Sarah."
Her world tilted. Bark? It was beyond anything. Beyond the face-fucking, beyond the brutal anal, beyond the bruises. This was pure, unadulterated dehumanization. Her body locked rigid. Tears blurred her vision, spilling hot down her cheeks, dripping onto the carpet. The phone’s red light pulsed. Waiting.
"Bark." The command was sharper now. An edge of impatience. "Or I delete your number right now. You’re just another boring cunt anyway."
The words ‘boring cunt’ struck like a physical blow. Special? The lie shattered completely. But the fear of being discarded, of being nothing at all, was stronger. Desperation clawed at her throat. A pathetic, choked sound escaped her – a whimper caught between a gasp and a moan.
"Louder," Ethan demanded, his free hand stroking his hardening cock through the fabric. "Like a dog. A good little bitch fetching her master."
The words ‘good little bitch’ echoed horribly. She squeezed her eyes shut again, the tears flowing freely. Her chest heaved. She forced air out, past the constriction. A harsh, ragged sound tore from her throat. "Huff... huff..." It wasn’t a bark. It was a strangled gasp of utter defeat.
He laughed. A short, sharp bark of his own. "Pathetic. Try again. Bark."
Shame was a molten river. She felt fractured. Broken. She opened her mouth. Forced her diaphragm to contract. The sound that emerged was raw, guttural. "Arf." It was barely audible.
"Louder!" he snapped. "Bark like you mean it, bitch! Or crawl back out the door."
Panic flared. She sucked in a ragged breath, the air scraping her throat. "Arf!" It was louder this time, sharper. The sound echoed in the small room, obscene and ridiculous. "Arf!"
His laugh was fuller now, tinged with genuine amusement. He lowered the phone slightly, still recording. "Good girl," he purred, the phrase laced with acid. "Good little bitch. Now..." He pulled down his sweats in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and menacing. "...fetch." He grabbed a fistful of her hair, not painfully, but with absolute control, and guided her face forward towards his crotch. "Open wide. Show Daddy how good you can suck."
The taste of his skin, musky and salty, filled her senses as he pushed the head past her lips. He didn't wait. He thrust deep, the thick shaft hitting the back of her throat instantly. She gagged, her eyes watering anew, her earlier barks echoing in her memory like a cruel taunt. He held her head still, buried deep. "Suck it, bitch," he grunted, his hips flexing slightly, rubbing his cock against her palate. "Suck it like the hungry dog you are."
She obeyed, hollowing her cheeks, trying to breathe through her nose, the sounds wet and desperate. He started fucking her face in short, brutal strokes, his grip tight in her hair. "Yeah, take it deep," he panted, his free hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding it ruthlessly down her throat. She choked, saliva dripping down her chin. "Swallow it, cunt. Get it nice and slick." He groaned, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, the phone momentarily forgotten as he focused on his pleasure. "Gonna fill that dirty mouth... gonna make you swallow it all... good bitch... fucking perfect little cock sleeve..."
He slammed deep one last time, holding her head impaled on his shaft as he pulsed hot jets of cum directly down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the salty bitterness overwhelming, more tears spilling as she choked and sputtered around him. He pulled out with a wet pop, leaving her gasping, strings of saliva and cum connecting her lips to his glistening cock. He looked down at her, panting slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. He lifted the phone again, zooming in on her tear-streaked, cum-smeared face, her red-rimmed eyes wide with humiliation.
"Special girls swallow, right?" he said, his voice thick with satisfaction, the camera light blinking steadily. He gave a final, dismissive pat on her head, like she was a pet. "Clean yourself up. I need a beer." He turned away, pulling up his sweats, and walked out of the bedroom without a backward glance, leaving her on her hands and knees on the dirty carpet, trembling violently, the taste of his cum and her own degradation thick and sour in her mouth. The silence after the door closed was absolute, broken only by her ragged, choking sobs. The posters watched, cold and indifferent.
Sarah remained frozen on all fours, the rough carpet fibers biting into her knees and palms. Her throat burned, raw from the brutal face-fucking and the vile taste of his cum mixing with her tears. The silence Ethan left behind was deafening, punctuated only by her own shaky, hitching breaths and the distant thump of bass from his living room speakers. The posters seemed to leer now, trophies mocking her own worthlessness. She was just another conquest displayed. Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright onto her knees. Her legs trembled violently. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing tears and sticky saliva. It was futile. She needed water, anything to wash the taste away. The thought of facing him again twisted her stomach into knots, but the alternative – leaving covered in his filth – felt worse. Gathering the shattered remnants of her composure, she pulled her t-shirt back on over her head, its softness offering no comfort. Her panties felt damp and uncomfortable. Ignoring her discarded jeans for now, she stood on unsteady legs and shuffled towards the bedroom door.
The hallway was dim, leading towards the harsh fluorescent light spilling from the open kitchen door. She could hear the clink of a bottle cap, the gurgle of beer being poured. Taking a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm her, she stepped into the kitchen. Ethan stood leaning against the counter, shirtless still, scrolling through his phone with one hand, a sweating bottle of IPA in the other. He glanced up as she entered, his expression blank, then dismissively returned to his screen. The cold indifference cut deeper than the earlier cruelty. He’d used her, filmed her humiliation, and now she was invisible. The cheap cologne smell was fainter here, replaced by the sour tang of spilled beer and something stale. She moved to the sink, her bare feet cold on the tiled floor. Turning on the tap, she cupped her hands under the cold stream, splashing water desperately onto her face, rubbing hard at her mouth, trying to scour away the taste, the feeling, the memory of barking. She drank greedily from her hands, the water soothing her torn throat momentarily. She leaned over the sink, bracing herself, feeling utterly hollowed out yet buzzing with a desperate need. The silence stretched. He didn't look up. She couldn't leave it like this. Not again. Not with that video burning in her mind.
"Ethan?" Her voice was small, raspy, barely audible over the running water.
He didn't respond, engrossed in whatever was on his screen. A flicker of irritation crossed his face at the interruption.
She swallowed hard, the cold water doing nothing for the knot in her chest. She turned off the tap. The sudden silence felt heavy. She kept her back to him, staring down the drain, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the sink. "Can you... can you maybe not be so... mean?" The words felt thick and clumsy, childlike. "When we... in bed?" She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing out the core of it, the pathetic hope he’d once dangled. "It… it makes me feel like… like you don't love me." The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable.
A sharp, derisive snort came from behind her. She flinched. Turning slowly, she saw him looking directly at her now, a wide, mocking grin spreading across his face. He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "Love you?" He pushed off the counter, taking a deliberate step towards her, his eyes roaming over her body with a detached, appraising leer. "Sarah, sweetheart. The only thing I ever 'loved' about you," he sneered, making air quotes with his fingers holding the phone, "was this." He gestured vaguely towards her chest and hips, his gaze lingering on her ass. "This tight little body. Those tits. That giant fucking ass." He took another swig of beer. "Perfect for fucking. That's it."
Her breath hitched. The cold tiles seemed to leech the warmth from her bare feet. She hugged her arms around herself.
He raised his phone, tapping the screen, bringing it to life. She could see the thumbnail – her, on her hands and knees, face contorted mid-"arf". He grinned, showing teeth. "Now that I've got this little masterpiece?" He shook the phone slightly. "Honestly, I can't imagine I'll get much use out of you anymore anyway." His voice was casual, conversational, as if discussing a broken appliance. "I mean, how the fuck do you top a girl barking like a dog while you skull-fuck her? Seriously?" He chuckled again, the sound devoid of warmth. "The whole point was seeing how low you'd go. How much I could degrade that pretty face." He lowered the phone, looking her up and down once more with utter contempt. "Mission fucking accomplished. You topped out, sweetheart. Hit rock bottom beautifully." He took another long pull from his beer, turning slightly away as if she no longer warranted his full attention. "Hard to see the point now."
The words landed like physical blows. Use out of you. Degrade that pretty face. Mission accomplished. The fragile shield of ‘special’ didn’t just shatter; it vaporized. He hadn't wanted her. He hadn't cared. He’d only wanted to see how broken he could make her. And she’d obliged. Willingly. Eagerly, even, desperate for a scrap of approval. Her stomach heaved violently. She barely made it to the sink before retching, coughing up water and bile, the acidic burn matching the searing humiliation that now consumed her. She clung to the cool porcelain, shaking uncontrollably, the taste of vomit joining the lingering traces of his cum. He was still there, a silent, indifferent presence behind her, sipping his beer, the proof of her utter degradation held casually in his hand. The buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead seemed deafening. She had given him everything, and he’d only ever wanted her broken. He’d won.