The Little Pet
Killian
I’m buzzing with excitement when Dad comes into the kitchen with Jenna on a leash, crawling on all fours, a red gag ball between her teeth. She’s exactly where she belongs. Beneath us. Quiet and helpless.
Dad makes her kneel on the pillow at the end of the table. “Stay,” he says, pressing his hand to her head in a soothing gesture before going to the kitchen.
Darting my tongue across my lower lip, I grab the chain close to her collar and pull her head up, soaking up the almost panicked look in her eyes. “Not so much of a princess anymore, huh? Just a dumb little pet.”
Dad’s feet shuffle to a halt behind me, his warning hanging thick in the air. But it’s not his reaction that makes me pause. It’s the way Jenna’s brows knit in a pained expression. I don’t want to react to it, but seeing her pain bounces straight back at me and cuts at my heart. Ignoring my reaction, I tell myself I’m dialing back because I don’t want our dinner plans to be over before we’ve even begun.
“Ourlittle pet,” I correct, remembering how stressing that she belongs worked like magic the last time she was hovering at the edge of her limits. “Our helpless but pretty little pet. No rights, no voice. Just ours to control.”
Dad tries to quieten his deep breath, but his relief is as palpable as his silent reproach was. I’m surprised the urge to roll my eyes and throw a sharp comment his way is only a brief thought passing through my head. If anything, I’m eager for him to bring Jenna’s “plate” over and offer a thick presence of authority mirroring mine, bringing Jenna even deeper into the muck at our feet as we form an impenetrable wall of dominance around her. Doing this alone is fun, but the effect when Dad is here too is stunning.
Anticipation surges through me when he returns with Jenna’s “plate.”
I study her closely, wanting to soak up every trace of shock and humiliation as he places it in front of her. And she delivers on every account.
Her breath halts. For a second, she just stares at the dog bowl full of cut-up meatballs and spaghetti. Then her eyes dart up, wide with alarm. I can tell she wants to say something—a protest—but when she moves her lips, shame overcomes her and she shoots a hand up to cover the gag ball.
Dad—lingering to study her just like me—tuts. “We can’t have that. No hiding, Jenna.” He points at the leather cuffs on the table. “Will you hand me those, Killian?”
I give him the cuffs, and Jenna drops her head in defeat when Dad moves behind her and gathers her arms behind her back.
“What did Dad just say?” I scold and grip her chin, forcing her head up.
Her brows knit with humiliation, but this time, there’s none of that hurt from before. This is exactly what we’re going for. Ashy and humbled Jenna who wants to escape the humiliations as much as she wants to receive them. And she offers yet another delicious opportunity to rub the shame in her face—literally—when she gnashes at the red ball and a string of drool slips past it.
She whimpers and tries to pull away, but I won’t let her. I release her chain and grab her face instead, squishing her cheeks around the ball, causing more drool to spill. “Oh no,” I drawl, “you’re already drooling like a dirty little animal.” I drag a finger through the spit, smearing it across her cheek, then her forehead. “I can’t wait to see what a mess you’ll make once you start eating.”
She tries to shake her head against my hand, a stubbornuh-uhsound slipping past the gag.
“Oh, yes.” Keeping my grip firm on her cheeks, I reach for the implement on the chair beside me. Holding it up for her to see, I say, “If you don’t obey, this is what you’ll get.”
Dad has already cuffed her hands, and she starts jerking against the restriction at the sight of the black rubber-coated cane.
“Sit still,” Dad admonishes. When she doesn’t obey immediately, he adds, “Or Killian will administer four strikes.”
She freezes, nostrils flaring with the force of her trepidation.
Still on his haunches behind her, he lifts his hands to the buckle behind her head. “Now, I’m going to remove the gag, and you’re going to be a good little dog and remain quiet. Yelps and whimpers are more than okay, but any word will prompt a thwack of the cane. Do you understand?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she nods.
With a discreet gesture toward her face, I gain Dad’s attention, then close my eyes demonstratively—imitating Jenna—and hold up the cane.
He understands and nods.
Without Jenna noticing, I position the cane above her right thigh. And flick it.
Thethwackmixes with her startled cry. Bending forward, she starts hyperventilating, her entire face scrunching up.
Dad leans over her, gathering her close. “I told you not to hide,” he scolds in a deceptively soft tone and presses an equally soft kiss to the side of her head.
She sputters garbled sounds around the gag, more drool spilling—I’m sorry, she tries to say.
Dad gives me a firm nod, and I deliver another sharp blow, the cane already in position.
