Chapter 5: Doggie Style at Dawn
The first thing I became aware of was the weight. Not the physical weight of the collar—though that was there, a familiar, comforting pressure—but the weight of her attention. I was on my stomach, half-asleep, the faint dawn light painting the room in shades of ash and pewter. She was awake. I could feel her stillness beside me, a coiled potential energy in the mattress.
Then, a small, warm hand settled between my shoulder blades.
“Kuna.”
Her voice was soft, but there was no sleep in it. It was the voice she’d used last night when she talked about next time. A voice with intention.
I grunted, turning my head on the pillow to look at her. Her face was close, her eyes huge and dark in the dim light. She looked serious. Determined. The Megumi who had begged me to fill her up was gone, folded away. This was the girl with the leash.
“Roll over,” she said. “On your stomach.”
A thrill, sharp and immediate, shot down my spine to my groin. I obeyed, pushing myself onto my stomach, the sheets rasping against my skin. The collar shifted against the pillow. I heard the soft shuff of her moving, felt the dip of the mattress as she swung a leg over me. She didn’t straddle my hips. She sat on the small of my back, her weight pinpoint and perfect. Her thin cotton nightgown was a whisper against my skin.
Her fingers found the leash where it lay tangled in the bedding. She gathered it up. The leather whispered through her hands.
“Hands and knees,” she instructed, and gave the leash a little flick against my shoulder.
The command, delivered in that quiet, morning-hoarse voice, was electric. I pushed myself up, my arms trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from the surge of raw submission. The room tilted as I got to my hands and knees on the mattress. The position felt profoundly vulnerable, my ass in the air, my back arched under her slight weight. I was a beast in a stable, and she was my tiny keeper.
“Good,” she murmured, almost to herself. I felt her shift, then the warm, soft press of her foot against me. She was still wearing her socks—thin, white cotton anklets. She placed her sole firmly against the base of my spine, right on my tailbone, and pushed. “Arch more. Like… like a cat.”
I pushed back against the pressure, deepening the curve of my spine. The movement made my cock, already thick and heavy between my legs, swing slightly.
“Yeah,” she breathed, approval warming her tone. “Just like that.”
I heard more movement, the rustle of fabric. The weight left my back. I dared a glance over my shoulder. She was kneeling behind me, her nightgown rucked up around her waist. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. She was looking at my cock with a kind of terrified fascination. It looked obscene in this context, a brutal, ruddy thing jutting out from the vulnerable presentation of my body. She reached out, her touch so light it was almost not there, and ran her fingertips along the length of the underside, from root to tip.
A violent shudder racked me. A low groan escaped my throat.
“Shhh,” she said, but it was absent-minded, her focus entirely on the task. She bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. Using both hands, she guided me, aligning the slick, broad head with her entrance. I could feel how wet she was already, the heat radiating from her. The tip of me pressed against her, a blunt, insistent question.
She let out a shaky breath, held it, and sank down.
It was a slow, deliberate impalement. The angle was different—deeper, more direct from the start. She took me inch by staggering inch, a low, continuous moan vibrating in her throat. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly, trying to acclimatize, to stretch. She went slower than she had last night, taking her time, until she was fully seated, her ass pressing firmly against the backs of my thighs. She was so tight it was almost painful, a gripping, molten heat that threatened to unravel my control immediately.
“Oh, god,” she whimpered. Her hands flew to my hips, her fingers digging in. “Oh, fuck, Kuna. It’s… it’s in my stomach. I can feel it in my stomach.”
She began to move. Not the bouncing ride of before, but a rolling, grinding motion of her hips. She used my body for leverage, pulling herself forward and then rocking back. Each backward rock drove me deeper, the head of my cock battering against a deep, internal barrier with a soft, profound thud I could feel in my teeth.
Her cervix. She’d mentioned it last night, a clinical term that had become the most erotic word in our private lexicon. Now she was making a lie of the barrier. She was letting me past it. Not just letting. Asking for it.
The leash was still in her hand. As she found a rhythm, a little clumsy but fiercely determined, she wrapped it around her fist once, twice. The slack disappeared. The collar grew snug, then tight, against my throat.
“You’re my good pet,” she panted, the words coming in time with her rolls. “My big… stupid… pet.” Each noun was punctuated by a deep, driving grind that made her eyes roll back. “Made just for me. To fuck me just like this.”
Her confidence was a fragile vessel on a stormy sea. And the storm was the sensation. I could see it breaking her apart. Her movements became less controlled, more frantic. The steady grind dissolved into sharp, shallow bucks of her hips. Her moans climbed in pitch, losing words, becoming raw, open-mouthed sounds of overwhelmed pleasure.
“There, there, right there, don’t stop, it’s hitting it, it’s hitting the spot, oh my god, oh my god—” The leash jerked in her hand as her body spasmed. Her first orgasm took her suddenly, a sharp, surprised cry tearing from her throat. Her channel convulsed around me, a rapid, milking pulse that dragged a guttural roar from my chest. The collar cut off the sound, turning it into a choked growl.
She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The climax seemed to wind her up, not down. She started moving again almost before the last tremors had finished, driven by a mindless, addictive greed. “More,” she sobbed, yanking on the leash unconsciously. The leather dug into the side of my neck. “Deeper, please, I need it deeper—”
She was pulling so hard my head was forced back, my airway constricted. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. The dual sensation—the punishing, perfect tightness of her body below, the restrictive bite of the collar above—fused into a single point of blinding euphoria. I pushed back against her, meeting her frantic thrusts, driving into that deep, forbidden pocket with every ounce of strength I had.
She came again. This one was less a cry and more a sustained, shattered wail. Her body bowed, her nails scoring my skin. She flooded around me, a fresh gush of wet heat. The leash went taut as a bowstring. She was using it to hold herself upright, to pull herself onto me harder. She was choking me in earnest now, her small body demanding everything, offering no quarter.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes…” It was a mantra, a prayer to the feeling. She was gone. The Megumi who gave orders, who blushed, who asked if she was doing a good job, was obliterated. In her place was a raw, needful creature, possessed by the cock inside her. Her eyes were unfocused, her mouth slack, drool tracing a thin line from her lip to her chin. She was cock-drunk. Mindbroken. A beautiful, whimpering mess.
A third orgasm shuddered through her, this one so intense it was almost silent. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Her grip on the leash spasmed, yanking my head back so far I heard a joint pop. The lack of air, the stunning pressure in my groin, the sight of her utterly ravished face over my shoulder—it was too much. I felt the tidal pull of my own climax, a terrifying precipice.
“Gumi,” I rasped, the word shredded by the collar. “I’m gonna… I can’t—”
“No!” The word was a slap. Her eyes found mine, blazing through the haze. “No, you don’t! Not yet! You’re my pet! You cum when I say!” The authority in her voice was shocking, a pure flare of dominance emerging from the wreckage of her pleasure. She punctuated it with a brutal, downward slam of her hips that made us both shout.
She rode me through the edge, dragging me back from it with sheer, brutal will. Her own sensitivity must have been agony, but she didn’t stop. She changed her angle, rocking forward onto her hands, which she planted on my lower back. This new position allowed her to piston her hips faster, a jackhammer motion that had her gasping, her hair sticking to her damp forehead.
A fourth climax. This one was a series of sharp, hiccupping cries, like she was being punched in the gut. She collapsed forward onto my back, her small breasts pressing into my sweat-slicked skin, her face buried in my shoulder. She was sobbing. “It’s too much, it’s too much, I can’t, I can’t take anymore, it’s too good, Kuna, it’s too good—”
But her hips kept moving, tiny, involuntary circles. She was beyond her own control. Her body was just a vessel for the sensations, and it was demanding more, always more.
“Please,” she begged into my skin, her voice wrecked. “Please, can I cum again? Just one more? Please, let me cum one more time on your stupid, big cock. Please, Mommy’s good pet, please let her.”
The shift in pronouns, the fractured, begging request wrapped in a domme’s language—it was the most potent thing I’d ever heard. She was begging me for permission to find her own pleasure on me. The submission in it was bottomless. The dominance was absolute.
“Yeah,” I managed to grit out. “Cum for me. Do it.”
It was all she needed. A fifth, cataclysmic release tore through her. It was less a distinct event and more a systemic collapse. Her entire body locked up, rigid, vibrating. A long, drawn-out scream was muffled against my shoulder. Her inner muscles clamped down on me in a series of relentless, rhythmic pulses, so intense it felt like she was trying to suck the marrow from my bones. The leash was a vice around my neck. The world tunneled to the feeling of being consumed, utterly and completely, by her pleasure.
It lasted for an eternity. When it finally began to ebb, she went completely boneless, a ragdoll slumped across my back. Her breaths were hot, wet gasps against my skin. She was trembling uncontrollably.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our struggling lungs. The room smelled like sex, salt, and leather. The gray light had strengthened, revealing the rumpled battlefield of the sheets.
Slowly, carefully, I reached back and hooked an arm under her legs, holding her to me as I carefully lowered us both to our sides, still joined. She made a faint, protesting sound at the movement, which sent a fresh ripple through her overstimulated nerves. She nuzzled her face into the space between my shoulder blades, her body curled around mine.
Her hand, which had been locked in a death-grip on the leash, finally relaxed. The leather fell loose.
We lay there, spent. I could feel my own orgasm, held at bay for so long, now a dull, throbbing ache in my balls. It didn’t matter. Her five had been enough for both of us.
Minutes passed. The trembling in her small body gradually subsided. Her breathing evened out. She stirred, her fingers coming up to trace the red line the collar had left on my neck.
“Did I… hurt you?” she whispered, her voice raspy and thin.
“No.” I swallowed, my own throat raw. “It was perfect.”
“I think… I think I lost my mind for a minute there.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean to pull so hard.”
“I loved it.”
She was quiet, her fingertips now exploring the damp skin of my back, tracing the paths her nails had taken. “I felt like I was going to die. In a good way. Like… if I came one more time, my soul would just leave my body. It would fly out and stick to the ceiling.”
A weak laugh shook my chest. “I would have caught it.”
“You were so deep.” Her voice was full of awe. “I’ve never felt anything like that. It was… it was everywhere. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything but feel it.”
She shifted slightly, and I winced as I slipped out of her. A slow, hot trickle followed, a visceral reminder of the intensity. She made a small, sore sound but snuggled closer, pressing her front to my back, her arm wrapping around my waist. Her hand came to rest low on my abdomen, over the place where she’d felt the bulge.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice drowsy now. “I didn’t let you finish.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. That’s not fair.” She yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “Later. I’ll… I’ll make it up to you. When I can feel my legs again.”
“Deal.”
Silence settled, warm and heavy. The promise of later hung in the air, sweet and unspoken. Her breathing deepened, slowing into the rhythms of true sleep. The leash, still clipped to the ring on my collar, trailed across the sheet like the tail of a tame animal. Outside, a bird began to sing, a bright, ignorant trill in the softening dawn.
I lay awake, feeling the weight of her trust, the enormity of what we were doing, the perfect, wrong rightness of it all. Her socked foot was tucked between my calves, a point of innocent contact. She owned me. Not just in the game, not just when the collar was on. In every way that mattered. And in her surrender, in the beautiful, mindless wreck she became in my arms, she owned me even more completely.
I closed my eyes, listening to her breathe, feeling the gentle pressure of her hand on my stomach. The dawn bled into morning around us, but in the cave of our sheets, time had stopped. There was only this: the aftermath, the peace, and the quiet, steady certainty of more to come.