Chapter 40
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.
“Our little 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. A shy 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 stubborn uh-uh sound 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.
The thwack mixes 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.
Jenna goes hysterical, screaming and writhing, but Dad tightens his grip, keeping up the soothing comfort.
“Shh.” He presses several tiny kisses to her head.
“This is what happens when you disobey. No words, no hiding. Those are the rules.” He keeps rocking her until she calms down, and I watch in fascination.
The combination of cruelty and tenderness is captivating, and I almost want to kiss and cuddle her just to deliver that same effect myself.
But that’s crossing my own boundaries, and watching Dad do it is a thrill of its own.
“Are you ready to obey?” he finally asks, straightening her and reaching for the buckle again.
She nods, and when she’s about to drop her head, I warn, “Jenna. No hiding.”
She gulps, then aims her gaze up at me, wide and so damn full of shame and glazed over with submissive desire.
An impulse makes me reach out and stroke her cheek—a reward. Compelled to see what happens, I keep my fingers there, petting her. Her frown softens a little, and when I curve my hand around her cheek, she even leans into it.
“You’re so damn helpless,” I murmur. “You belong on the floor, bound and gagged, eating from a bowl. Don’t you?”
Even after having seen the effect of Dad’s comfort on her, I’m surprised when she draws a deep, shuddery breath of acceptance and nods.
Even after more than a month, the sight of her succumbing to me despite what I’ve done always catches me off guard.
It makes me want to do things I swore I’d never do with any woman.
It takes me a moment to notice Dad watching me. I’m quick to deliver a small but demonstrative slap to her face and draw back. But Jenna’s gasp is full of desire, and Dad’s soft expression tells me he saw my slip.
Knowing not to linger on it, he turns back to the task at hand and removes the gag.
Jenna opens and closes her mouth, and I suppress the urge to reach out and massage her jaw. “Eat,” I tell her instead and turn to the pot on the table to scoop up a healthy portion for myself.
Dad does the same, leaving her to gather her nerve—or frazzle her nerves even further—while we both start eating.
Jenna, on the other hand, just stares at her food, nervousness growing with each passing second.
“Eat,” Dad tells her, but she just keeps staring.
When her ragged breaths become pervasive, Dad and I share a look. No more stalling. I pick up the cane, and Dad wraps a hand around her shoulder, drawing her startled eyes to him.
“For every ten seconds you don’t eat, you’ll get one strike.”
I hold the cane up for her to see.
“No,” she gasps.
I position the cane on her thigh, preparing to punish her for the slip. She shakes her head, begging quietly. I smile, deliberately taking my time, because Dad has already rolled up his sleeve and started counting on his watch.
“Dad told you what would happen,” I admonish, rubbing the tip of the cane over her skin.
Her lips part, then press together, blocking the words she badly wants to speak.
“Finally catching on?” I mock, staring at those delicious lips. I want to coax them apart, taste them, and bite them. Make her moans slip across them, into my mouth. But a scream from those lips would be just as delicious.
Training my gaze on her, I still the cane. Her brows tighten, revealing she knows this is it.
Thwack.
I snap the cane, striking her thigh. Then I shoot in to grab her jaw, just in time as she bucks forward.
“No hiding,” I scold and snap the cane again.
Her mouth falls open, a choked scream scratching through her throat. Tears brim in her eyes, her shoulders shuddering with the effort of holding herself together as she fights tooth and nail to keep her gaze on me.
“Hmm.” I rub my thumb across her cheek. “You almost deserve a reward. It’s a shame the clock is already ticking.”
I glance at Dad, making her do the same. When she sees him watching his wrist watch, she starts shaking her head frantically.
“Fifteen,” Dad counts out loud.
Betrayal and horror have her mouth opening and closing, desperate to voice the words of injustice undoubtedly hanging right at the tip of her tongue.
“Sixteen,” he says.
She shoots forward, out of my grip, digging into her bowl so fast she gets sauce on her cheek. Grinning, I lean my elbows on my knees, wanting to see every detail of the humiliating debacle she’s creating, all on her own.
Dad leans down to caress the back of her head. “Don’t worry. We’ll let you eat in peace. No more strikes until you’re done.” He rests his hand on her head—again, deceptively gentle. Putting weight into his fingertips, he dips her forehead into the bowl, eliciting a sharp whimper from her.
He looks at me, and we share an amused smile. A feral twitch draws over his face when he refocuses on Jenna and wraps his hand around her ponytail.
She squeals when he lifts her head, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Seventeen,” he declares.
Utter, desperate humiliation tightens her whole expression as she peels her eyes open and blinks from Dad to me.
Sauce is smeared across her left cheek, dotting her nose, and painting her forehead.
Her lips shudder, the muscles around her eyes twitching, tears beading at the corners. She’s so damn beautiful.
Again, the urge to kiss and caress her awakens—along with an urge to drive her deeper, shooting my cum all over her face. But as much as the urge to come all over her tugs at my balls, I don’t want to destroy her like that. Because I know it would. She’s right at the cusp, about to break.
Dad sees it as well. He grabs a napkin and gently wipes her cheek, her nose, and her forehead. “Such a mess you’ve made,” he says in a gentle tone.
I just watch for a moment, marveling at that contradictory combination of praise and degradation that he seems to love. I’m surprised to realize just how enticing I find it. On impulse, I lick the pad of my thumb and wipe it down the side of her mouth. “Such a pretty little dog can’t help it.”
Her eyes keep flickering between us, not daring to look away, but also not daring to linger. But when I say those words, they soften and halt on me. It’s just for a beat, but the surprise in there—the vulnerability—makes me want to keep stroking and praising. But I leave that to Dad.
“Can you be a good little dog and lean down and eat the rest of your food?” he asks. Upon her nod, he adds, “I want to see how grateful you are for getting your own bowl. Now, how does a dog show gratitude?” He directs the question at me.
“She wags her tail very eagerly,” I say with a grin.
“It’s a shame she doesn’t have a tail,” Dad says, turning to her. She’s shaking her head again, panic wide in her eyes. “Since you’re so eager to get back to eating, we’ll have to wait until next time. If you can be good and show us just how grateful you are.”
Her eyes fall shut on a deep, shuddery breath, remaining closed.
Dad gives me a brief shake of his head, and it takes me a moment to realize what he means.
I hadn’t even thought about punishing her for the small slip—hiding behind closed eyes.
I agree with him. She deserves the small reprieve and a second to gather herself.
Because what she does next is utterly beautiful.
With controlled movement, she slowly leans forward and dips her tongue into the bowl.
And then her hips start working. At first, it’s just small movements, but then it grows into full-on happy wriggling.
Her groans and whimpers reveal she’s not as happy as she seems. She’s deep in the muck, and she’s hyper-aware of every tiny flicker of degradation.
I’m not sure if it’s the sadist in me or the part that wants to make sure she’s okay that has me moving to crouch behind her and push her panties aside beneath her skirt.
It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I’m enjoying every second as I slowly slide a long digit inside her pussy, hearing her groans deepen and turning into moans.
“Is she wet?” Dad asks.
With a small headshake, I let out a clipped laugh. “You won’t believe how wet she is.”
He comes to sit at my side, and I pull out to let him insert a finger.
“Jenna,” he says in a low, stern tone that makes her pause. “You’re embarrassingly wet. Like a dog in heat begging to be fucked.”
Keeping his finger seated deep inside her, he reaches for the lube and the glove on the table and hands them to me.
A flicker of hesitation goes through my mind at the sight of his finger already inside her.
But it’s just that—a flicker. Because I truly don’t care about right or wrong or what anyone else would think.
All I care about is right here and now. My dad, who has taught me all I know and made me into the pianist and the Dominant I’m proud to have become, and the pathetic, helpless girl that is not pathetic at all but beautiful and brave in her reckless, trusting submission.
The connection all three of us share, bound together in this messed-up show of immorality, is somehow exactly what all of us need.
I’m never going to admit that out loud, and I don’t want to linger on it, so I focus on the degradation I’m about to deliver instead. The act that will bring us all a step deeper into depravity.