Marguerite's Welcome

I had just purchased my first personal service pet, and she arrived shy and skittish.

I had paid extra for her virginity, of course, so the problem wasn’t unexpected. Many people might not find it a problem at all–might enjoy the opportunity to watch their new conquest blush and shrink away from them, or even to see her struggle. But that wasn’t what I wanted.

I wanted her hungry for me, eager for my cock. So some training was in order.

As I already said, the problem was not unexpected. I’d been warned about it, in fact, by some fellow forum-goers on my preferred pet training forum; a variety of solutions had been proposed, but the one that appealed to me most required little more than some patience on my end and a few purchases from the local sex shop. Not cheap on their own, but compared to the cost of the girl herself, the accessories were very affordable.

I introduced her to them on her arrival, along with her bedroom, which had previously been my walk-in closet. I had provided plenty of cushions and blankets to make it comfortable, but otherwise it was empty, except for the two accessories she would be wearing while sleeping: a ridged dildo, flared at the base, so that it could be safely stored up her ass–with an adjustable harness to keep it snuggly in place–and a pair of bondage mittens to keep her hands out of trouble.

A chastity belt may have been even more effective, but I would have needed to order it custom-sized to her measurements, and even my patience has limits. And besides, it would have obstructed my view of her.

She was a lovely creature, twenty-one years of age, with long, dark hair and matching curls at her nethers. Her eyes were dark as well, and they were large and frightened as she eyed her nest of a bed and the toys lying in the center, listening to my explanation of how she would be wearing them to sleep every night.

She was quiet, too. That was another product of her anxiety, and as irksome to me as the rest of it. Not that I had expected a conversationalist–she couldn’t speak, of course; that was a mandatory part of the training, something I wasn’t rich enough to buy out of. It was part of the legal requirements for pet status. She would only speak under very specific circumstances, primarily only to the authorities in the case that she were to witness a crime. But she could make sounds, of that I was sure, and I had no interest in fucking a church-mouse.

“Your name,” I informed her, “is Marguerite.” She nodded silently to that, too, her wide, dark eyes staring somewhere at my hip.

So our routine began. That first evening, she was cooperative but clearly inexperienced, fumbling her way through my instructions: first preparing herself, then slicking the dildo, and then sliding it–slowly, and with a great deal of embarrassment, refusing to meet my gaze as she did–into her ass. Then she wiped her hands clean of lube with the hand-towel I provided and strapped the harness into place before putting the mittens on. I had to strap up the last one for her, and I gave her a little pat on the ass when it was done, which got an almost-noise out of her, a little flustered, breathless squeak.

I smiled and sent her to bed, closing the door behind her.

The next day, she did very little except follow me around, silent as a ghost. Except a ghost wouldn’t be so bashful; she drifted towards furniture and doorways, anything she could stand near to conceal part of herself, because of course I had given her practically nothing to wear in the way of clothing, just a bit of gauzy drape to accentuate her body. She even held her hands in front of her privates, although she clearly knew she wasn’t meant to be doing that, because she’d pull them away again if I looked at her too hard; but they’d wander back again sooner or later, as if she could retain her modesty by concealing a few inches of her body from my gaze.

Marguerite was intelligent, though. I knew that because I’d requested it, first of all, but I also knew it from her behavior, even silent and timid as she was at the beginning: she took everything in as I showed her around the house, her eyes jumping from one place to the next, lingering on certain things that made her think.

The piano in the foyer was one of the things which caught her eye. “Do you play?” I asked, and she jumped, twisting her hands nervously in front of her, as if surprised to be observed. Finally, after several seconds, she nodded, then held up one of her hands, fingers pinched together. A bit, I understood her to mean. “Lovely,” I said, and considered whether it would be worth it to pay for an instructor to improve her skills. I’d never been much of a fan of music, but I liked the idea of it, her sitting at the piano and playing for me.

Her cheeks flushed with color, either at the compliment or with embarrassment at having such a conversation in her half-dressed state.

After the tour of the house, I took her with me into my home office and put in a few hours of work. She kneeled beside me, quiet and unobtrusive, only seeking my attention to politely use hand signals to ask for permission to use the restroom and then to ask if she should prepare some lunch, both of which I agreed to. She prepared some passable turkey sandwiches–barbecue sauce on mine, but not on hers, which was a very practical consideration, given that she ate kneeling on the floor. This, at least, she seemed confident in, and I assumed she must have plenty of practice in domestic service.

I threw her her second curveball, if the sleeping arrangements could be considered the first, in the afternoon. I finished working for the day and closed out of the company’s server-based workstation, then opened up a browser and navigated to one of my favorite porn sites.

She didn’t make a sound, but I did hear how her breath caught for a moment. I’d very pointedly sat her in a position where she could see my screens easily. When I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock, I think she stopped breathing altogether.

I navigated to some of my favorite videos, the same ones I’d been watching in anticipation of her arrival: amateur videos by other pet-owners, or possibly ordinary women pretending to be pets, moaning and squealing wordlessly as they sucked, rode, came on their masters’ cocks.

I stroked myself slowly, indulging in the novelty of playing with myself while knowing her eyes were on me. It served a few purposes, not the least of which was to show her how I preferred to pleasure myself–I expected she had very little experience in pleasing a cock, and wanted to give her a good shot at it whenever she got up the courage to touch me.

When I did chance a look down at her, I think she barely noticed; her gaze was fixed on my hand moving across my shaft, her cheeks pinked with embarrassment, eyes wide with nerves and confusion. I was sure she’d expected to be fucked by now, and wondered how much she’d anticipated it as well as fearing it.

Even trying to draw it out, I only lasted about ten minutes; the knowledge of her presence got me too hot. I finished into a tissue and cleaned myself up, then tossed it into the trash and tucked myself back into my pants without comment. When I stood and gestured for her to follow me, her eyes were still big, and she was chewing on her lip. But she pushed herself to her feet and went with me obediently.

That evening, I heard another noise out of her. It was as she was pushing the dildo into herself: a half-swallowed little groan as it stretched her open. I smiled at the sound of it, and she immediately flushed bright red, avoiding my eyes.

I could recount the next week or so for you in detail, but the truth was that it went much the same, in the broad strokes. The change in her came, but it was slow, building day over day. It was there in the permanent flush that rose up under her skin. It was there in the way she shifted her weight a bit when kneeling beside me as if she needed to find a new angle to get comfortable, and in the way her hands stopped moving to cover herself, but instead brushed over her thighs and hips, knotting fitfully in the fabric draped near her crotch. It was there in the way her breathing changed when she watched me handle myself–no longer quick and nervous like a panicked rabbit, but deep and shaking, almost meditative.

And, most markedly, it was there in the moments that I could see her cunt. Especially in the evenings, as she put on her accessories, and in the mornings when she pulled the dildo out again; that was where the change was most visible–the way her thighs had dampened, the way her little clit had plumped up. I swear I even saw it twitch, the fifth night, as she slid the dildo home, her eyes closed and teeth buried in her lip like she was silencing a moan.

Before she could open her eyes, I leaned in and placed a hand on her hip, proprietary and familiar, and rubbed my thumb along the dip of it. Not anywhere near her clit, not in a way that risked giving her any more gratification than I intended, but it was a sensitive spot–somewhere that she wasn’t used to being touched–and she gasped in surprise, her hips rolling forward and her whole body shuddering as her eyes flew open and found mine, and she looked startled and still a little too nervous.

So I just smiled at her again, and put the mittens on for her, and sent her to bed.

But that touch must have opened things up for her, must have made her admit to herself what she wanted–or needed–because the next morning, things were very, very different.

I woke to a sound that I couldn’t quite place, a quiet creaking. I identified the source of it quickly enough: her room, of course. When I opened the door, I found her up on her knees, braced against one wall, with one of her hands underneath herself at a very awkward angle so that she could grind her cunt down onto the mitten. She was sweaty, her hair disheveled from rubbing against the wall in a way that suggested she’d been at it for a while, her eyes bright and feverish with need.